The Little Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules

by Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg

‘Oh, yes, the clergyman …’ said Brains, getting up and following the warder to the visiting room. Martha must be behind all this and she must have something very important to say. He smiled to himself and politely greeted the spiritual adviser. The warder withdrew, and Brains and the clergyman sat down on the sofa. The clergyman pulled something out of his pocket.

  ‘I have a poem with me. A woman I visited wanted you to have it. She hoped it would help you to find the light.’

  ‘The light?’

  ‘Yes, the inmate Martha Andersson was very anxious about this. She writes poems every day, and this is evidently one of her best. She particularly wanted you to have it.’ The clergyman handed over a sheet of white paper. Brains recognized Martha’s handwriting. He unfolded the paper and started to read.

  He, the one high above,

  Stretches out his hand,

  Gives you life –

  Like water in a drainpipe,

  Riches of freedom;

  Together we travel

  Far away

  Never forget me.

  Perplexed, he fingered the paper.

  ‘I don’t really understand this sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t poems rhyme?’ He handed the poem back to the clergyman, who read it silently and then stroked the paper several times with the back of his hand.

  ‘I think this woman cares for you,’ he said after a while. ‘Look at this, “Together we travel” and “Never forget me.”’ He gave the paper back to Brains.

  ‘Does she like me, do you really think so? But couldn’t she just say so—instead of my trying to interpret this?’ He read the poem again.

  ‘People express themselves in such different ways. This is perhaps her way of formulating her feelings.’

  Blushing, Brains refolded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. With Martha no longer close to him he had felt himself abandoned, and nothing had seemed fun any more. But now, what a poem! He turned to the clergyman again.

  ‘She’s a lovely woman, that’s for sure. We thought we would be together in prison, but it hasn’t turned out like that. I hope we get let out soon. My good friend, Rake, misses his lady friend too.’

  ‘But doesn’t she come to visit?’

  ‘No, his Christina can’t visit him either. She has been remanded in custody too.’

  ‘Goodness me. So there are four of you pensioners who have committed a crime?’

  ‘No, five. Anna-Greta, who sings in the same choir, was also in the gang.’

  ‘Five sinful souls—well, that is quite a haul.’ The clergyman discreetly pulled out a Bible. ‘Perhaps we can read something together?’

  ‘That would be nice, but first I must reciprocate those fine words from my Martha. Can you give her a greeting from me?’

  ‘Like what, for example?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘A Bible quote, perhaps?’

  ‘That sounds nice, perhaps something about Moses wandering in the desert—or maybe I should try to write a poem myself. Then she will understand that I am making an effort for her sake.’

  ‘That is a very beautiful thought.’ The clergyman pulled out a pen and ripped out a page from his diary. ‘Here,’ he said, handing the page over. Brains thought about what he was going to write for a long time while the clergyman sat still without saying a word so as not to disturb him. Slowly and with deliberation Brains wrote down his poem:

  Martha, I stretch out my hand

  To those secret places, my dear –

  I welcome the Light in this alien land.

  When you think of me, have nothing to fear;

  Together we can a new spring see –

  Together, you and me.

  That was about as cryptic as he could manage; the clergyman wouldn’t fathom anything, but Martha would understand. He considered what she had written about the money in the drainpipe. The money that would give them a better life the day they got out of prison. But there had been a hidden agenda, too, in her poem. “Riches of freedom/Together we travel.” She was planning something …

  ‘Like I said, I’m no good at writing poetry,’ Brains confessed, handing over what he had written. ‘But do you think she will like this?’ The clergyman had a quick look at the poem and smiled encouragingly.

  ‘They are beautiful words. I am sure she will be touched.’

  After the clergyman had left, Brains was in the best of spirits. He and Martha had found a way to communicate, and sooner or later he would get to know what this wonderful woman was planning next.

  Forty-Two

  By the day that Martha was to be moved on to Hinseberg Women’s Prison, the evenings had grown lighter and the first leaves were appearing on the trees. When she came out through the door she saw that a car was already awaiting her. Before getting in, she looked up at the Sollentuna remand prison, where the sky, as usual, was mirrored in the glass façade. The sun’s rays had a beautiful glisten to them, but it hadn’t been so glowing inside there. Now, thank God, a real prison awaited her, although it was a pity that it was only for women. Naturally, it would be much better than the remand cells, but it would be tough. She had discovered how confined it felt to be in a prison cell. In the retirement home they had been locked in too, but Nurse Barbara had nevertheless refrained from putting bars on the windows. Martha could hardly appeal the conviction. Since she had been the driving force behind the project, it just wasn’t right to back out at the last minute—although they had come close to not ending up in prison at all. The judge had actively tried to find them not guilty. The five-hundred-kronor banknote and the shopping trolley wasn’t much in the way of evidence, even though their DNA samples were a match. On top of this the police had found mobile phones, hairbrushes and one or two gold bracelets stuffed in the back of the wardrobe at the Grand Hotel. Still, the police and the judge thought that the old people were probably just confused. Besides, it was still not entirely clear what had actually happened at the National Museum. The warped walking stick confounded many police officers, and in the reconstruction they hadn’t been able to fit in how it was actually involved in the theft. The judge said that the court should only convict if there was no doubt at all, and it wasn’t fitting to demand a one-year sentence for pensioners without any previous criminal records. The lay magistrates, however, had thought that the five deserved the punishment. For several weeks the newspapers had written about the unscrupulous pensioners who had misappropriated Sweden’s cultural heritage and laid their hands on paintings worth thirty million kronor—as well as a record ransom of ten million. In one newspaper editorial after the other, this extremely serious economic crime had been highlighted and compared with the ravages of the financial sharks. The lay magistrates had been influenced by this, even though they claimed that they were totally impartial. Martha had emphasized that they had intended to return the paintings to the museum, and that the ten million was for charity, but nobody believed her. When the sentence was announced, nobody thought there was any point in lodging an appeal. Such a procedure took a long time and, besides, they had been through enough lately. With a bit of good behaviour, they ought to be out in six months, as all Swedish sentences seemed to be halved in reality, and by then they would have had plenty of opportunity to test what it was like in a real prison. Martha was curious about her new residence, and thought it would be exciting to share everyday life with criminals. She had never been in a proper prison before, and was always keen to try something new. It simply couldn’t be worse than the remand cells.

  The Sollentuna remand prison had been cramped and depressing, and the daily exercise period wasn’t at all as pleasant as she had counted on. The guards had taken her to a sterile exercise yard which was hemmed in by the highest walls she had seen in all her life. No charming, swaying cornfields like in Österlen, only concrete. Not even if four convicts had stood on each other’s shoulders with her balanced on top would she have been able to see over the wall! While she tramped around on the dirty grey concrete
in the exercise yard she could just about hear birds, local trains and the sounds of normal life outside—but all she could see was a grey grid of metal in front of a sliver of sky. The contrast between this and the Princess Lilian suite was just too enormous, and she even found herself longing to hear the sound of Rake’s night food excursions and Anna-Greta’s thunderous laugh. If the clergyman hadn’t come to see her now and then, bringing greetings from Brains, she probably wouldn’t have been able to stand the isolation. The poems had helped her to regain her courage. She had found something to occupy herself with. The New Plan.

  ‘Hurry up now. Are you coming or not?’ the driver demanded. It seemed as though they wanted to get the transfer done as quickly as possible so as to avoid the worst of the Friday traffic. Martha moved slowly with her hands cuffed, and it took time to fold up the walker. The guards did try to help her, but they didn’t know how to retract the reflector arm. Finally, she managed to instruct them how to do this correctly and then she flopped down breathless on the back seat. A guard was seated on either side of her. The car started, the gates were opened and off they went. The car journey west to Örebro proceeded at quite a pace, and while the car passed through the landscape Martha thought about her friends in the choir. Anna-Greta and Christina would both be sent to Hinseberg too, and she was looking forward to seeing them again. She would also be able to initiate them into her new plan. At this stage, it was perhaps more useful to talk about ideas. She had to get them on the right wavelength.

  After a few more kilometres, the driver changed to a lower gear and Martha caught sight of a white building surrounded by fencing and barbed wire. When they had driven past the lodge, the car entered the yard and came to a halt. She peeped out; she had heard that Hinseberg was a place that dated back to the Middle Ages and that nobility had once lived here. It wouldn’t be too bad being locked up in an old country mansion, she thought, even though some of the historic buildings had been demolished. In the background she could make out the shimmer of the lake. There were no high concrete walls here, and you could see through barbed wire and chain-link fencing. She stepped out of the car, thanked the driver for the elevator, and said hello to the new screws. A thin, middle-aged woman with a long blond ponytail took care of her.

  ‘Martha Andersson?’ the woman asked, looking at her papers.

  ‘The very same,’ answered Martha. She wondered if there had been rumours about her arrival, because such things happened, she had heard. None of the eighty inmates here would have imagined that a seventy-nine-year-old criminal would be joining them. But what did your physical age actually say? Ninety-year-olds could be just as sprightly as seventy-year-olds. On the other hand, you got seventy-five-year-olds who seemed more like centenarians. Martha herself was still in pretty good shape. She had been exercising in the gym at the remand prison. She didn’t really need to rely on her walker any more but would make use of it when she had something criminal to do. Martha realized that most of her fellow inmates would be youngsters of about thirty or forty, but that didn’t matter to her. On the contrary, she liked younger people—they were often more daring than her contemporaries.

  When the guard with the blond ponytail had checked through all her papers, she took Martha along for registration. This meant that Martha must take off her clothes to be searched. It was degrading to get undressed and have to stand naked in front of strangers, especially when you didn’t look like you used to during your best days, but here you couldn’t be fussy. Of course the guards wanted to check that you didn’t have anything with you that was forbidden.

  ‘Can you fathom why people get so wrinkled when they are old?’ asked Martha, pointing at the floppy bits under her chin and stomach. ‘What is this good for?’

  The guard with the ponytail looked up but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I might have to think about getting a whole-body facelift. I wonder what that would look like?’ Martha continued, and she couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

  ‘Hold your arms up.’

  ‘Right, yes. I could have something hidden in my armpits. You know, dear, a lot more would fit under my sagging breasts.’

  The blond woman didn’t react at all.

  ‘Sagging breasts are perfect for stolen diamonds—even though it does chafe a bit,’ said Martha chirpily. ‘You see, gold is too heavy and falls out.’

  ‘Sorry?’ the ponytailed guard responded.

  ‘And what do you do about breast implants? Have you got a special scanner for those?’

  ‘You can put your clothes back on again,’ said the ponytailed guard hurriedly. Martha couldn’t see even the slightest sign of a smile. ‘Come along with me to the medical unit.’

  ‘But I’m not ill.’

  ‘We are going to carry out a cavity search.’

  Martha realized at once what that meant, took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh.

  ‘Well then, unexpected visits are so nice. It’s been such a long time. But seriously, you are wasting your time; I haven’t any hidden paintings on me.’

  The ponytailed guard shot her a murderous look and Martha immediately shut up. Goodness, this one really was surly. Martha had chosen the wrong time and place to be jocular. After all, this was a prison. At that same moment she had a premonition of what awaited her. Being incarcerated in Hinseberg might not be quite as pleasant as she had anticipated.

  Forty-Three

  The remand period was coming to an end, and now a more permanent posting awaited them. Brains sat in his cell and looked through the poems he had received from Martha. Did he dare keep them? They might be confiscated and analyzed at the new place. At the same time, he doubted whether he would be able to remember everything she had written. So he would have to take them with him. If worse came to worst, he could lie and say he had written them himself.

  He read through the poems again. In the first ones, Martha had been preoccupied with the money in the drainpipe; in the later poems she had presented constructive suggestions as to what they should do with the millions. Apart from contributions to geriatric care, culture and the poor, she had become sentimental. She hinted that she felt sorry for museums, which had such a difficult financial situation, and suggested that they perhaps ought to give some of the money back to the National Museum—why not as an anonymous donation via the Friends of the National Museum? Many riches, to art in return, or whatever it was she had written. Then she had said something totally different in later poems, which he interpreted as meaning that the money should stay in the drainpipe after all, but perhaps that was simply one of her usual tricks to send people down the wrong track.

  The clergyman, who took a look at every poem, became all the more confused, and Brains had explained that Martha obviously wasn’t feeling very well in prison. In the two most recent poems, she had really gone to town:

  In a life without borders,

  Riches for all,

  The sun of the earth welcomes us –

  Joy to all …

  So Martha wanted them to give money to others—but also be able to afford to journey to the sun. Then the Robbery Fund should become active and kept alive.

  The heavenly choir’s heartfelt fund –

  Fill it and keep it afloat;

  God’s goodness

  Sees us all …

  Martha seemed to have great plans but was perhaps rather too optimistic. Even though they had stolen valuables and two famous paintings, they could hardly pull off just any robbery they wanted. It was tough in the criminal world, dangerous even. It had been interesting to take a few steps down the path of crime, but if prisons were like the remand cells he had seen so far, then they had a far better reputation than they deserved. If they were going to do something criminal again, then everything must work perfectly so that they did not get caught.

  Brains found himself thinking about some very shady characters he had met in the Sollentuna remand prison. Juro, a big and strong Yugoslav, had whispered something about a bank robber
y. He had spoken Croatian but Brains knew several languages and had understood it all. Brains’s father had been a carpenter in the former Czechoslovakia and his mother came from Italy. When his parents moved to Sweden and ended up in Sundbyberg, they had spoken every imaginable language, and Brains had picked up quite a lot. He became interested in languages and often listened to foreign radio stations when he was busy in his workshop. That way you learned a language without having to make an effort, he thought. So far it had worked. He had even become quite good at Croatian, thanks to his new friend in prison.

  The Yugoslav must have seen when Brains sketched his inventions, because in the exercise yard some days later he had crept up to him and whispered:

  ‘You special technic, yes?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I used to build with Lego when I was little, that’s all.’

  ‘No, no, you inventor man. Me know. You clever—locks and alarms.’

  Oh hell, thought Brains, who wanted to keep his head down with regard to any criminal skills.

  ‘I studied Polhem when I was a lad and his locks are three hundred years old,’ Brains said and laughed it off.

  ‘Banks, you know,’ the Yugoslav went on. ‘Stoopid, much stoopid. They take money from state when bad bissness, yeah, but they not share when good bissness. I fix them, you help—’

  ‘There are other ways,’ Brains interrupted him. ‘The state can ask for a bonus. People make a lot of money from that.’ He tried to sound like a man of the world; he had kept up by reading the newspapers and understood that bonuses made people rich. So he wasn’t completely hopeless when it came to money issues. The Yugoslav laughed heartily and put his hand on Brains’s shoulder.

  ‘You know, here in Stockholm, Handelsbank at Karlaplan, yes? Close to Valhallavägen and quick to Arlanda Airport. But bank locks much difficult.’

  Brains shrugged his shoulders to indicate that it was regrettable. ‘I’m not at all familiar with that sort of lock.’