The NSA, she thinks. Gerhard hasn’t got rid of his weapon. In certain areas the American secret service is superior to the Norwegian police.
‘What did they live off?’ she says.
‘Who?’
‘Åse and Gerhard.’
Sverre clears his throat. ‘I think it was tight. Gerhard came from Spain in thirty-seven or thirty-eight. He had a bullet wound, but recovered and got a job in Gjøvik. When he met Åse they moved to Oslo. When I met Gerhard he was working for Oslo Council, but he lost that job to a Nazi. Afterwards he was unemployed a lot of the time.’
‘What was his job for the council?’
‘Cemeteries Division.’
‘Cemeteries Division,’ she repeats. Lifts her glass and sips the wine. ‘What do they do?’
Sverre Fenstad shrugs. ‘We all have to die one day. Someone has to sort out the practicalities.’
‘Did the resistance give them anything?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t give Gerhard any money when he crossed the border?’
Sverre shakes his head and takes a roll-up from his breast pocket. ‘I’ve lost my lighter and keep forgetting to buy a new one.’
She doesn’t want to let him change the subject. ‘Gerhard had loads of money when I met him in Stockholm. US dollars.’
He shrugs. ‘He was given the transport. The money was his. We couldn’t give money to every man and his brother crossing the border. Obviously.’
Ester goes to the cupboard and fetches a box of matches. Throws it to him. She strokes her chin, thinking.
He blows smoke out through his nose. ‘What’s on your mind now?’ he asks.
‘I want to see the case file from the war,’ she says. ‘The murder of Åse Lajord. You can help me there.’
‘Why do you think I can help you?’
‘Intuition.’
‘What do you want with the file?’
She takes another sip of wine. ‘Turid, his daughter, has a bracelet she insists belonged to Åse. I’d like to know if this piece of jewellery was in the flat, or if Åse was wearing it when she was found.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because it’s a bracelet my father gave my mother as a morning gift – the day after they were married.’
Sverre sits up. She has his full attention.
‘It’s kabbalah jewellery – protection against the evil eye. Turid’s wearing the bracelet now.’
Sverre says nothing. He gets up and flicks ash into the sink. Sits down again.
‘It’s a very special bracelet. The jewel that’s meant to protect you is the gemstone alexandrite. It’s green in ordinary daylight, but changes to red indoors, with the lights on. The bracelet itself is forged from the five kabbalah metals: gold, silver, copper, tin and lead. On the outside there’s an engraving in Hebrew of all the words for God listed in the Second Book of Moses, and on the inside there are the initials AL. Turid claims the bracelet’s from Åse.’
‘AL. Åse Lajord That fits.’
Ester shakes her head. ‘The owner was Amiela Lemkov. If it was found on Åse, why wasn’t it confiscated? You said yourself the Gestapo were involved in the investigation. The Nazis confiscated anything of value that was in any way Jewish. This bracelet’s a Jewish work of art. The engraving on the outside is in Hebrew! The wording of the law was clear enough. All Jews’ wristwatches had to be confiscated and handed over to the Wehrmacht. Gold, silver and jewellery also had to be confiscated and placed at the disposal of the German government via the Norwegian Sipo.’
‘I’ve read the case file. There’s nothing about a bracelet in it. It must’ve been Åse’s mother’s.’
‘Are you hard of hearing? The bracelet was a gift from my father to my mother. She was the owner when it went missing in October forty-two. I intend to find out how this work of art made its way from my mother’s jewellery box to Åse’s daughter, Turid. And I need any help you can give!’ She bangs her fist on the table so hard her glass tips over.
Fenstad hurries to the sink. Drops his cigarette in it and moistens a cloth. Mops up the wine. Wrings the cloth over the sink and wipes the rest. Then he refills both their glasses.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘I promise you’ll get the file tomorrow.’
Oslo, November 1967
1
Ester pushes the seat forwards and throws her fencing bag onto the back seat. Gets in. Lays her handbag on the passenger seat and starts the car. Looks in the mirror. Immediately notices a green VW Beetle pulling out fifty metres behind her.
She drives up Kirkeveien, passes the wrought-iron gate of Vigeland Sculpture Park. Stops at the lights where the road meets Middelthuns gate. Looks in the mirror. She sees only the outline of the driver’s head. The windscreen of the VW reflects the sun. Ester opens her handbag.
When the lights change she turns into Middelthuns gate. As she passes Frogner Lido she sees the VW has fallen behind. She accelerates up Sørkedalsveien and across the Smestad intersection.
Now she should go straight on to Makrellbekken and Njård Sports Hall to train. Instead she veers off towards Holmenkollen.
With her right hand she gropes in her bag. Her fingers find the revolver. She releases the safety catch and puts the gun in the glove compartment.
She passes the grass pitch. Quick glance at the mirror. No VW.
So she should take Stasjonsveien to the left and drive back to the sports hall. But she wants to be sure. She carries on over the crossing and up the mountain. On the hairpin bends she still can’t see the green VW. But as the road straightens out, she sees it, a couple of hundred metres behind her. She turns off at Besserud and follows the narrow roads up to Voksenlia and the back of Holmenkollen hill.
The VW is hanging on.
She heads for the Krag statue and the sightseeing point above the city.
As she approaches she sees a tourist bus has stopped in the car park by the sculpture. A crowd of Japanese tourists is admiring the view and taking photos.
She drives to the side of the statue and parks by a group of tourists. A woman is photographing the monument of Hans H. Krag leaning against a pillar of granite, a wide-brimmed hat on his head, one hand holding a walking stick and the other on his angled hip. Not unlike Sverre Fenstad, she thinks, looking in the rear-view mirror.
The VW drives in and stops right behind her.
Ester opens the lid to the glove compartment and leaves it down. Sits with the engine idling, looking into the mirror.
The driver’s door of the VW opens. A squat man comes out. He hitches up his trousers and trudges towards her.
The man stops by her door and leans over. Ester rolls down the window.
‘You don’t remember me,’ he says. His breath reeks of alcohol and his eyes are swimming. ‘But I saw you many times when we were teenagers.’
Ester keeps a hand on the gear stick and a foot resting against the accelerator.
He lifts a hand and extends it towards her. ‘My name’s Erik Heggen.’
Ester switches off the engine and pulls on the handbrake. She opens the door and gets out.
The man moves back and almost falls.
‘You’re drunk,’ she says.
He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. ‘When you’re at my level, being drunk’s very different from this.’
The Japanese tourists are making their way back into the bus.
‘You shouldn’t be driving a car in your state,’ Ester says.
The bus doors close. The engine starts.
He watches the bus through watery eyes. ‘She talked a lot about you,’ he says. ‘Often.’
‘What do you want?’
He ventures another smile. ‘Perhaps we should talk about what’s important?’
‘Which is?’
‘Someone we both knew well. Åse.’
2
A butterfly is on the window sill. It doesn’t move even when she rattles the stay. Its wings are stretched out. It is a red admiral. Brown win
gs with reddish-orange stripes and white spots. She leaves it in peace, carefully lifting the stay, opening the window a fraction and securing it. Then she stares at the butterfly, which appears to be glued to the wood. Presumably it is dead.
She turns away from the window and sits at the grand piano. Opens the lid and lets her fingers run across the ivory and ebony keys. The piano tuner came several times over several weeks to make sure the strings were in order. Presumably during the years she and the piano had been separated it had never been played. The thought that the piano had loyally waited for her fingers strengthens her feelings for this instrument. And when she plays, the feelings appear to be mutual.
This is her private piano. It is not demeaned by bum notes or children’s sticky fingers; it does not have to endure shaky tempos or rhythms. Coping with work in the adjacent room, carrying on her life, confronting children’s battle against music – their submission to parents’ ambitions and desperate struggle for something they don’t understand – is one thing. However, her grand piano has to be spared that. She closes her eyes and allows her fingers to find the keys by themselves. They play the opening to the ‘Andante Sostenuto’ movement from Schubert’s Piano Sonata D960. She has dealt with explosive emotions in this way many times before. It is a difficult piece, psychologically; it is dramatic – a hold-yourself-back and stay-cool and don’t-go-mad piece. But then a growing fury enters her consciousness and however much she fights, she can’t restrain this feeling. The only solution is to stop playing. To sit still and allow this new silence to subdue the fury as far as it is able.
As if on cue, the outside world intrudes. The telephone rings.
Ester glowers at it. Gets up, fairly sure she knows who it is. She is right.
‘Sverre here.’
She asks where the case file is.
He says he has it in his hand. There is mention of an engagement ring, he says. And also a pair of earrings with inlaid pearls.
She interrupts. ‘You were supposed to hand the case file over to me.’
‘A filigree brooch,’ he says as though he hasn’t heard her. ‘And some other traditional silver adornments, which have been given back to her mother. But there’s nothing about a gold bracelet. Nothing.’
Again Ester is irritated by how Sverre always wants to be in charge and take control. She tries not to let her anger show.
‘I’ve spoken to Erik Heggen,’ she says.
‘Did you hear what I said? No kabbalah jewellery was found in the flat. Did you ask Erik Heggen about the jewellery?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. He’s probably the person who knows how his daughter came to have it.’
She doesn’t want to discuss the mystery of her mother’s jewellery with Sverre. She doesn’t want his opinion on this entangled issue. ‘And you’re sure you have all the documents in this file?’
‘Not all of them, no.’
‘What’s missing?’
‘Some of the interviews, as well as the pathologist’s report.’
‘Åse had a post-mortem?’
‘I suppose they wanted to determine the cause of death.’
‘What was the pathologist’s name?’
She hears him take a deep breath. His voice is low and condescending. ‘Ester! She can’t have eaten a bracelet.’
‘I have no preconceived notions. I want the name of the pathologist.’
‘The man might be dead.’
‘What’s his name?’
The silence ticks away for a few annoying seconds before she hears the rustle of papers.
‘Sveen. Torkel Sveen.’
‘Thank you. By the way, Erik Heggen insists that he and Åse started up again.’
‘That very day? When he was with her in the flat?’
‘He admitted to me that he visited her that evening at the end of October because he knew she would be alone. Apparently she was complaining about her relationship with Gerhard. Because he refused to work; because he only wanted to play soldiers in the woods. “Play soldiers” are Erik’s words. Åse and Gerhard didn’t have much money. On top of that, her mother was seriously ill. She wanted to move home and help her, but Gerhard had said no, Erik says. Gerhard didn’t want to live in Valdres and slave away for her mother. Erik says he left Åse early in the morning and she was alive.’
‘That’s a very convenient confession. Do you believe what he says?’
‘I didn’t at first.’
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘You said there were American cigarette butts in the flat. And the Gestapo reacted as a result.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Neither Åse nor Erik smoked.’
His silence grows now. She takes the telephone directory, starts looking for addresses of pathologists.
At last Sverre clears his throat. ‘Did you ask Erik if he took cigarettes with him?’
‘He did.’
‘But he didn’t smoke them?’
‘He’s never smoked.’
‘What was he going to do with the cigarettes then?’
‘Black market. That was why he stole them. One of the cartons he took to Åse’s was gone and there were butts in the ashtray on the table.’
Silence again.
Ester leafs through the directory, runs a finger down a page then flips it over. ‘I know someone who smoked in those days,’ she says.
‘Erik Heggen told you he was there and left her. So when did the cigarette butts end up in the ashtray?’
‘It happened in the middle of the night. Åse had woken Erik. She’d been almost hysterical and told Erik he had to leave before Gerhard returned. He’d tried to calm her down, saying Gerhard was in the mountains. But then she’d shown him the ashtray and the cigarette ends. She said Gerhard had been in the flat while the two of them were asleep. She said he’d been in the sitting room, smoking while the two of them were still sleeping in the bedroom. She’d been woken by a door closing and she guessed it was Gerhard leaving.’
All Ester can hear in the receiver now is a faint crackle. She continues to flick through the directory.
Pathologists came under Rikshospital. She takes the pen beside the pad and makes a note of the telephone number. Puts down the pen.
‘Erik Heggen may of course have been lying about this,’ she says. ‘But someone who’s definitely lied about this all along is Gerhard. When I met him in Valdres he claimed Erik was the last person to see Åse alive. This was his conclusion, he told me. He’d come to it after all the years he’d spent thinking about what happened. Of course it’s a possibility. But what Erik told me is a much better explanation of how Gerhard knew Erik was with Åse. And it should also be to Erik’s credit that he finds me on his own initiative and tells me everything.’
‘But why would Gerhard kill Åse? Their child was in the very next room!’
‘Now at least there’s a motive. Jealousy.’
‘Surely that’s a bit banal, isn’t it?’
She doesn’t answer. Death is never banal. If someone can live for more than fifty years without realising that, then it is beneath her dignity to teach them any better. ‘The water’s boiling. I’m making tea,’ she says. ‘Let’s talk later.’
3
The desk is of the British variety, with an inset leather section for writing. It is green with gold embossing around the edge. The shiny woodwork is red and polished, and there isn’t a single speck of dust. She would guess the desk is made from cherry wood. It is quite similar to her father’s – the one that was taken. She catches herself wondering whether the Nazis repaired the broken drawers before they sold it on. Perhaps it is the self-same desk, she thinks a second later.
The portrait of Levi Eshkol on the wall is reflected on the shiny surface, beside the only object on the desk. It has been carved from redwood – an elephant with four arms and a big stomach. It is riding a mouse and is called Ganesh – the Hindu God of intellect and wisdom. A typical quirk of Markus Rebowitz’s, she t
hinks. Markus is a rabbi who would like to be winked at by Buddha. She hears him in the corridor, his breathing. This has never happened before. Maybe he is catching a cold. He comes in carrying a big file under his arm. He places the file on the green-leather section in the desk. He sits down, making the chair creak, and starts thumbing through the file without even so much as a glance at her.
Ester thinks back. To the day she and Åse met on the Frogner pasture. 10th April 1940. The strange feeling of happiness in such an alarming situation. They were standing on either side of the large terrace; she was walking up the stone stairs, Åse was on her way out through the door when they spotted one another and both stopped for an instant to digest what their eyes beheld. At that moment the bomb threat was unimportant – their latent panic was forced to cede ascendency. What meant something was the pleasure of knowing that Åse lived in Oslo and that from now on they could meet as often as they wished.
‘Here,’ Markus says. ‘The confiscation papers for Paschal and Amiela Lemkow’s property.’ He looks up. ‘I thought you spelt Lemkow with a “v”.’
She nods. ‘I do.’
He looks back into the file. ‘Here’s an inventory of everything in the flat, down to the smallest fork. Did you own a rag toy, a donkey?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a note of it here.’ He pushes the file over to her.
Ester leans forwards. But when she sees it all in black and white – the list of woollen socks and trousers, the crossings out and the spelling mistakes – she closes her eyes and leans back in the chair. She can’t bear to immerse herself in the callous administrative machinery that bureaucratised her life and her family’s death.
‘As far as your father’s shop in Kirkeristen is concerned, all the watches, magnifying glasses and binoculars were confiscated and registered together; in other words, the number of watches and pairs of binoculars. But only in exceptional cases were specifications such as a manufacturer’s number and so on noted down. As regards items pertaining to the flat in Eckersbergs gate 10, there’s also a reference to a police investigation.’
The Courier Page 30
