Early on the morning of May 13, he drives on along the lochside and reaches his destination in the afternoon: the town of Dornoch, situated on a peninsula east of the Highlands. He books into the Rosedale Hotel near the harbour, and notes in his diary that “the air here is different from that in Västergötland”. He doesn’t explain in what way it is different. Now he has reached Dornoch, it’s the middle of May 1972, and so far he has made no mention of why he’s here. Just that he will meet “M.”. And he does in fact meet “M.” that same evening. “Long walk through the town with M.,” he writes. “Strong wind, but no rain.” He makes the same note for each of the next seven days. “Long walk through the town with M.” Nothing more. The only thing he finds worth remembering is that the weather changes. It seems always to be windy in Dornoch, but sometimes it’s “pouring down”, sometimes the weather is “threatening”, and just once, on Thursday, May 18, “the sun is shining” and it’s “rather warm”. A few days later he drives back the same way as he came. It is not clear whether it’s the same rented car, or whether he has dropped off the first one and rented another. On the other hand, when he comes to pay his bill at the Rosedale Hotel, he’s surprised that “it didn’t cost more”. After a few more days, having been forced to spend an extra 24 hours in Immingham due to “the ferry’s engine breaking down”, he returns to Göteborg and then Borås. By May 26 he’s back at work.
The passage about Scotland was a mysterious insertion in the middle of a diary with large time gaps. Sometimes several years pass without Molin applying pen to paper, usually a fountain pen, although occasionally he used a pencil to write his journal. The trip to Scotland, to the town of Dornoch, is an exception. He goes there to meet somebody called “M.”. They go for walks. Always in the evening. It is not clear who “M.” is, nor what they talk about. They go for walks, that’s all. On one occasion, Wednesday, May 17, Molin allows himself to make one of the extremely few personal comments to be found in his diary. “Woke up this morning fully rested. Realise I ought to have made this journey ages ago.” That’s all. “Woke up this morning fully rested.” It is a significant comment in many ways, because elsewhere in the diary there are many references to how difficult he finds it to sleep. But in Dornoch he sleeps soundly, and realises he ought to have come here ages ago.
It was afternoon by the time Lindman had read this far. When he found the package in the shed, his first thought was to take the diary to his hotel in Sveg. Then he’d changed his mind, and for the second time he entered Molin’s house by climbing in through the window. He’d brushed the jigsaw puzzle pieces to one side on the table in the living room, and replaced them with the diary. He wanted to read it there, in the ruined house, with the spirit of Herbert Molin close at hand. He set out the three photographs beside the diary. Before opening it, he untied the red ribbon around the letters. There were nine of them. They were from Molin to his parents in Kalmar, dated between October 1942 and April 1945. All of them were written in Germany. Lindman decided to work his way through the diary first.
It started with notes from Oslo on June 3, 1942. Molin recorded the fact that he’d bought the diary in a stationery shop in Stortingsgatan, Oslo, with the intention of “noting down significant events in my life”. He’d crossed the border into Norway to the west of Idre in northern Dalarna, on a road passing through Flötningen. The road had been recommended by a certain “Lieutenant W. from Stockholm whose job it is to ensure that those who wish to join the German army can find the way there through the mountains”. It was not explained how he travelled from the border to Oslo, but the fact is that he’s there now, it’s June 1942, he buys a notebook and starts to keep his diary.
Lindman paused at this point. It was 1942, and Molin was 19. In fact, his name at that time was August Mattson-Herzén. He started keeping his diary when he was passing through a life-changing phase. Nineteen years of age, and he decides to enlist in the German army. He wants to fight for Hitler. He’s left Kalmar, and somehow or other got in touch with a Lieutenant W. in Stockholm who has something to do with recruitment for the German military. But does young August go off to war with or without the blessing of his parents? What are his motives? Is he fighting Bolshevism? Or is he just a mercenary bent on adventure? It is not clear. All that emerges is that he is 19 years of age and is in Oslo.
Lindman read on. On June 4 Mattson-Herzén records the date then starts writing something that he crosses out. Nothing more until June 28. He notes in capital letters, in bold, that he’s “been enlisted”, and that he was to be taken to Germany as early as July 2. His notes exude triumph. He’s been accepted by the German army! Then he records that he buys an ice cream. Walks down the main street and looks at pretty girls who “embarrass me when I catch their eye”. This is the first comment of a personal nature in the diary. He licks an ice cream and eyes the girls. And is embarrassed.
The next note is hard to decipher. After a while Lindman realises why. Mattson-Herzén is on a train, which is shaking. He’s on his way to Germany. He writes that he is tense, but confident. And that he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by another Swede who has joined the Waffen-SS, Anders Nilsson from Lycksele. He notes that “Nilsson doesn’t have much to say for himself, and that suits me. I’m pretty reserved myself.” They are accompanied by some Norwegians, but he doesn’t record their names. The rest of the page is empty – apart from a large brown stain. Lindman imagined Mattson-Herzén spilling coffee onto his diary, then putting it away in his rucksack so as not to spoil it.
His next note is from Austria. It’s October by now. “October 12, 1942. Klagenfurt. I’ve almost finished basic training for the Waffen-SS. In other words, I’m about to become one of Hitler’s elite soldiers, and I’m determined to make the most of it. Wrote a letter that Erngren will take back to Sweden: he’s been taken ill, and has been discharged.”
Lindman turned to the pile of letters. The first one was dated October 11, from Klagenfurt. He noted that it had been written with the same pen Molin is using for his diary – a fountain pen that occasionally produced large blots. Lindman went over to one of the windows to read it. A bird flew off through the trees.
Dear Mother and Father!
I realise you may have been worried because I haven’t written before now. Father’s a soldier himself, and no doubt knows it’s not always easy to find time and a place to sit down with pen and paper. I just want to assure you, dear Mother and Father, that I am well. I came from Norway via Germany to France, where the basic training took place. And now I’m in Austria for weapons training. There are a lot of Swedes here, and also Norwegians, Danes, Dutchmen and three boys from Belgium. Discipline is strict, and not everybody can cope with it. I’ve kept my nose clean so far and even been praised by a Captain Stirnholz who’s in charge of part of the course here. The German army, and especially the Waffen-SS that I now belong to, must have the best soldiers in the world. I have to admit that we’re all waiting impatiently for the moment when we can get out there and start doing some good. The food is generally fine, but not always. But I’m not complaining. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come to Sweden. One is not entitled to any leave until one has been active for a certain length of time. Of course, I’m longing to see you again, but I grit my teeth and do my duty. And that is the great task of fighting for the new Europe and the defeat of Bolshevism.
Love from
Your son August.
The paper had turned yellow and become brittle. Lindman held it up to the light. The watermark, the German eagle, was very obvious. He stayed in the window. August Mattson-Herzén leaves Sweden, sneaks over the border into Norway and joins the Waffen-SS. His motive is clear from the letter he sent to his parents. August is no mercenary. He joins the German war effort, fights for Nazism, in order to contribute to the emergence of a new Europe that requires the elimination of Bolshevism. At the age of 19, the boy is already a convinced Nazi.
Lindman returned to the diary. By the beginning of January 1943, Mat
tson-Herzén finds himself deep in Russia, on the Eastern Front. The optimism that had been in the diary to start with has changed into doubt, then despair, and finally fear. Lindman was struck by an extract from the winter:
14 March. Location unknown. Russia. Freezing cold as ever. Scared stiff every night of losing a body part. Strömberg killed by shrapnel yesterday. Hyttler has deserted. If he’s caught, they’ll either shoot him or hang him. We are dug in and expecting a counterattack. I’m frightened. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of getting to Berlin and taking some dancing lessons. I wonder if I’ll ever make it.
He’s dancing, Lindman thought. He’s in some trench or other and he survives by dreaming about how he might be gliding around a dance floor.
Lindman examined the photographs. Mattson-Herzén is smiling. No sign of fear there. His smile is that of a real smooth operator. The fear is hidden behind these pictures, in photographs that were never taken. Unless he’d chosen not to keep any that betrayed his fear. So as not to remember.
Molin’s life can be split down the middle, Lindman thought. There is a decisive watershed, before the fear and with the fear. It creeps up on him in the winter of 1943 when he tries to survive on the Eastern Front. He’s 20 at the time. It could be the same fear as I’d detected in the forest near Borås. The same fear, more than 40 years later.
Lindman read his way through the book. It was starting to grow dark. The chill seeped in through the broken windows. He took the book into the kitchen, closed the door, covered the windows with a blanket from the bedroom, and carried on reading.
In April 1943, Mattson-Herzén writes for the first time that he wants to go home. He’s afraid of dying. The soldiers are engaged in a remorseless and depressing retreat, not only from an impossible war, but also from an ideology that has collapsed. The circumstances are horrendous. Occasionally, he writes about the corpses on all sides, body parts shot to pieces, the eyeless faces, the slit throats. He is constantly searching for a way out, but he can’t find one. On the other hand, he realises what is not a solution. Later in the spring he is given execution duties. They are going to shoot a Norwegian and two Belgian deserters who had been captured. This is one of the longer diary entries.
“May 19, 1943. Russia. Or possibly Polish territory. Was ordered by Captain Emmers to be part of an execution platoon. Two Belgians and the Norwegian Lauritzen were to be shot for desertion. They were hustled into a ditch, we stood on the road. Difficult to shoot downwards. Lauritzen was crying, tried to crawl away through the mud. Captain Emmers ordered him to be tied to a telegraph pole. The Belgians were silent. Lauritzen was screaming. I aimed for the heart. They were deserters. Military law applies. Who wants to die? Afterwards we were all given a glass of brandy. It’s spring in Kalmar now. If I close my eyes I can see the sea. Will I ever make it to home?”
Lindman could feel the young man’s fear resonating from the text. He shoots deserters, considers it to be a fair sentence, is given a glass of brandy and dreams of the Baltic Sea. But fear is creeping up on him all the time, forcing its way into his brain and giving him no peace. Lindman tried to imagine what it must have been like, lying in a trench somewhere on the Eastern Front. Sheer hell, no doubt. In less than a year his naïve enthusiasm had turned to terror. Nothing now about the new Europe: now it’s a question of survival. And hoping he’ll get back to Kalmar one day.
But it goes on until the spring of 1945. Mattson-Herzén has returned to Germany from Russia. He’s wounded. In the entry for October 19, 1944 Lindman sees the explanation for the bullet wounds found by the pathologists in Umeå. It is not exactly clear what had happened, but at some point in August 1944 he is shot. He survives by some kind of miracle, but the message that emerges from his diary notes is not one of gratitude. Lindman observes that something new is starting to happen to Mattson-Herzén. What characterises the contents of his diary is no longer fear. Another emotion has crept in. Hate. He expresses his anger at what is happening, and speaks of the necessity to be “ruthless” and to have no hesitation in “allotting punishment”. Although he recognises that the war is lost, he does not lose belief in the righteousness of the cause, the justification of the aims. Hitler may have let them down, but not as much as all those people who failed to understand that the war was a crusade against Bolshevism. These are the people Mattson-Herzén starts to hate in the course of 1944. This emerges very clearly from one of the letters he writes to Kalmar. It is dated January 1945, and as usual there is no sender’s address. He’d evidently had a letter from his parents, anxious about his welfare. Lindman wondered why Mattson-Herzén hadn’t saved the letters he’d received, only the ones he’d sent. Perhaps the explanation was that his own letters were a sort of complement to the diary. It was always his own voice doing the talking, his own hand holding the pen.
Dear Mother and Father!
I’m sorry I haven’t written for so long, but we have been constantly on the move and are now not far from Berlin. You have no need to worry. The war is a sad tale of suffering and sacrifice, but I’ve come through comparatively unscathed and been very lucky. I’ve seen a lot of my former comrades killed, but I have never lost heart. I do wonder, however, why more young Swedes, and older ones come to that, have not rallied to the German flag. Do people in my homeland fail to see what is at stake? Have they not realised that the Russians are going to subjugate everyone who fails to resist? Ah well, I shall not try you with my thoughts and my anger, but I am sure, dear Mother and Father, that you understand what I mean. You didn’t prevent me from joining up, and you, Father, said that you would have done the same if you’d been younger and didn’t have a gammy leg. I must close now, but at least you know I am still of this world and continuing the struggle. I often dream about Kalmar. How are Karin and Nils? How are Aunt Anna’s roses faring? I think about all sorts of things in quiet moments, but there are not so many of them.
Your loving son,
August Mattson-Herzén.
Now promoted to Unterscharführer.
Mattson-Herzén’s motives were now clearer than ever. He’d been encouraged by his parents to fight for Hitler against Bolshevism. When he went to Norway, it was not as some kind of adventurer. He had set himself a mission. Towards the end of 1944, possibly in connection with the wounds he had suffered, he had been promoted. What exactly was an “Unterscharführer”? What was the Swedish equivalent? Was there an equivalent?
Lindman read on. The entries became less frequent and shorter, but Mattson-Herzén stayed in Germany until the end of the war. He is in Berlin as the city falls, street by street. He describes how he saw a Russian tank from close quarters for the first time. He notes that on several occasions he was close to “falling into the clutches of the Russians, in which case I would have had to rely on the mercy of the good Lord”. No Swedish names crop up by now, nor are there any Danish or Norwegian ones. He is now the only Swede among German comrades. The last wartime entry in his diary is dated April 30.
“April 30. I’m fighting for my life now, fighting to escape alive from this living hell. All is lost. Swapped my uniform for clothes taken from a dead German civilian. That’s more or less the same as deserting, but everything is crumbling on all sides now. I shall try to escape over a bridge tonight. Then we shall just have to see what happens.”
It is not clear what happened next, but Mattson-Herzén did survive and did manage to get back to Sweden. A year passes before he makes the next entry in his diary. He is in Kalmar by then. His mother had died on April 8, 1946. He writes on the day of her funeral: “I shall miss Mother. She was a good woman. The funeral was beautiful. Father fought to hold back his tears, but managed to keep composed. I think about the war all the time. Shells whistle past my ears even when I’m sailing in Kalmar Bay.”
Lindman read on. The entries became shorter and sparser still. He notes that he has got married. That his wife gives birth to children. But he writes nothing about changing his name. Nor is there any mention of the m
usic shop in Stockholm. One day in July 1955, for no apparent reason, he starts a poem. He crosses it out, but it is still possible to read the words:
Morning sun in Kalmar Bay
The birds are twittering in the trees
Today will be a lovely day
Perhaps he couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with “trees”, Lindman thought. “Bees” would have worked. Or “breeze”. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote in a notepad: “With white clouds scudding in the breeze.” It would have been a very bad poem. Perhaps Molin had enough sense to realise the limits of his poetic gifts.
Molin – he is now Molin – moves to Alingsås, and then to Borås. Ten days in Scotland produce an unexpected outburst of writing. To find anything like it Lindman would have to go back to the first months in Germany when Molin’s optimism is intact.
After Scotland everything reverts to normal. He seldom takes up his pen, and then merely notes individual events, with no personal comment.
Lindman became more attentive as he came to the end of the diary. Before that, Molin had noted when he did his last day’s work at the police station, and when he moved to Härjedalen. One particular entry aroused Lindman’s curiosity:
“March 12, 1993. Greetings card from the old portrait painter Wetterstedt, congratulating me on my birthday.”
On May 2, 1999 he makes his last entry: “May 2, 1999. +7 degrees. My master jigsaw puzzle maker Castro in Barcelona has died. Letter from his widow. I realise now that he must have had a hard time these last few years. An incurable kidney disease.”
The Return of the Dancing Master Page 16
