Address books were her best tool in the search for relatives. She would ring all the numbers she found, in the hope of persuading someone to come to the funeral. When older people died, the numbers were often disconnected with no forwarding number. Occasionally so much time had passed that new subscribers had taken them over.
A sudden thought made her turn to the letter R. At the top of the column of names she found what she was looking for. Ragnerfeldt. The name was not crossed out.
‘Here are some photos.’ Solveig was kneeling in front of the old bureau with a brown envelope in her hand. Marianne put the address book in her bag and went over to her colleague, casting a glance inside the open bureau doors. Piles of neatly ironed tablecloths, crystal glasses of various designs, a Chinese-inspired coffee service. A red cardboard binder labelled Household Accounts on the spine. Marianne pulled it out and stuffed it into her bag.
‘I wonder if this is a picture of her? Looks like it’s from a birthday.’ Solveig turned it over. ‘Nothing written on it.’
She handed Marianne the picture. A faded colour photo of an elegantly dressed woman sitting in an easy chair surrounded by vases of flowers. Her hair was brushed back and fastened in a bun. Her face wore a serious expression, as if she wasn’t comfortable being the centre of attention.
Solveig took out another photo.
‘Look, here he is. That’s him, isn’t it?’
Marianne looked at the picture. Black-and-white this time. Axel Ragnerfeldt was sitting at a wooden table staring into the distance with a coffee cup in his hand. A woman of about the same age and two small children were also at the table, looking into the camera. A girl and a boy. The boy was a few years older.
Marianne nodded. ‘That’s definitely him. I didn’t even know he had a family.’
‘Maybe it’s not his.’
‘It looks like a family photograph.’
Marianne put the photo back in the envelope and stuffed it into her bag.
Solveig moved on to the bookshelf. ‘Here are some of his books.’
Marianne followed her.
‘Signed?’
Solveig opened a book. The florid signature flowed above the printed name, but this time without a personal greeting. Marianne pulled out another and flicked through the pages with her thumb. She gasped when she saw that all the pages were crossed out with a thick red marker. In certain places the text seemed to have particularly incensed who ever held the pen. Those pages had been obliterated with such force they were unreadable and the paper was almost torn.
‘Why the hell did she do that?’
They checked one book after another, and they had all been subjected to the same fate. The red lines shone blood-red on the pages, and here and there the pen had made small punctures. Marianne pulled out a book by a different author but found the pages untouched.
‘Hmm.’ She didn’t usually make comments, especially not about things that had taken place in the person’s own home and didn’t harm anyone else. But she found it odd, to say the least, that someone would intentionally destroy a signed book by Ragnerfeldt. Particularly in a home like this where the extra income from the sale of a valuable item might have been welcome. Perplexed, Marianne shoved the book back in place.
‘So, what do you think?’ said Solveig. ‘Do you have everything you need for now?’
Marianne opened her bag and took out the folder of inventory forms.
‘We just have to fill out one of these now.’
When the form was completed and Solveig had left, Marianne remained standing at the living-room window. She took in Gerda Persson’s view. A tree, a lawn, the dull green façade of a block of flats in the background. Behind those windows the lives and secrets of other people.
Everything she needed for the time being was packed into her bag. If no relatives contacted her after the death notice appeared, she would have to resort to the provincial records office and the church birth registry. And the names in the address book. She would do everything she could to find as many pieces of the puzzle as necessary to honour Gerda Persson at her funeral. Now her real work began. The hunt for Gerda Persson’s past.
She had already found one name.
Axel Ragnerfeldt.
3
‘No one had a greater influence on my father and his work than a man by the name of Joseph Schultz.’
With his finger poised over the name in his lecture notes, Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt paused dramatically and gazed out over the large auditorium.
‘I don’t recall how old I was when my father first told me about Joseph Schultz, but I grew up with the story about the choice that he made and his fate. Joseph Schultz was my father’s ideal, his great model for humanity. And I remember that every time my father told me about him, I understood even more that although it’s good to think good thoughts, genuine goodness emerges only when one takes action.’
The spotlight was blinding him. He could only see the people in the front rows, but he knew that the rest were out there. An anonymous audience waiting devotedly for him to continue.
‘So who was this remarkable Joseph Schultz? Is there anyone here who has heard his name?’
He shaded his eyes with his hand. A woman was sitting in the front row over to one side of the stage. He had already noticed her, but now he took the opportunity to study her more closely. Lovely chiselled features. Her breasts swelled under a shimmering blouse with taut buttons, a little opening where they failed to close. The dark gap aroused his interest. He lowered his arm.
‘Joseph Schultz was a young soldier in the German Wehrmacht during the Second World War. On the twentieth of July 1941 he and seven of his fellow soldiers were in Smederevska Palanka on the Eastern Front. Their mission was to suppress the partisans’ resistance. It was the height of summer, harvest time, and Schultz and his detachment had been sent out on what they thought was a routine patrol…’
He stood quite still. A sudden movement would have broken the atmosphere he was building up. He had become very skilled at this; experience had fortified his self-confidence, and now he could do exactly as he liked. The privilege of success. The more confidence he had, the more charisma.
He shifted his gaze and let his eyes meet hers. He had made his choice. She was the one who would carry him through the evening, and he made it obvious enough that she would notice. That she had been chosen. And he felt the longed-for tingling sensation that came from standing there on stage and having the power to choose, while all she could do was acquiesce.
‘After a short march they realise that the day’s mission is something different from what they’re used to, because suddenly Joseph Schultz and his detachment are stopped by a command.’
She lowered her eyes, but too late. She had given herself away. A stray smile had showed she was enjoying his attention. Like all the women he met, she had fallen for his position of power.
The game had begun.
‘The local people are busy bringing in the hay. Provisions for the winter must be stored away, because even in wartime people have to eat. Daily activities must go on. In front of one of the haystacks, fourteen civilian men have been lined up. All of them are blindfolded, with their hands tied behind their backs. Schultz and his seven comrades realise that they are about to become an execution squad.’
She was resisting, not wanting to seem too easy. Instead of looking him in the eye she fixed her gaze on something off to the side.
‘Eight young men who, legitimised by the law of their uniforms, receive orders to kill fourteen innocent fellow human beings.’
Someone coughed. Irritated, he saw that the spell he had created was momentarily broken. Some of the audience had begun shifting in their seats. Then her eyes were back on him. More assured this time, the bond established. In a hall of three hundred people they both felt it. Anticipation was aroused. A frisson.
Which could never be satisfied.
‘Seven of the eight in the patrol do not hesitate. They are ready to follow or
ders and raise their rifles. But Joseph Schultz suddenly feels that he has had enough. In the silence that ensues he drops his weapon on the ground and slowly walks over to the haystack. There he takes up position next to the line of the condemned.’
He clicked on his PowerPoint. The black-and-white photograph of the event that took place sixty-five years before was projected onto the screen behind the stage.
‘No one would remember Joseph Schultz and his heroic decision if one of his comrades had not taken a photograph of the event. How was it possible for a human being to make the choice that Joseph Schultz made? What was it that separated him from the rest of the patrol? The ones who were not only ready to execute fourteen unknown civilians, but also their comrade Joseph Schultz.’
He let the question sink in as he took a sip of water. Her eyes were on him the whole time, and he felt himself grow. There was no man sitting next to her, but that didn’t necessarily mean there was no man in her life. The audiences who came to the literary evenings out in the countryside were always predominantly women, and they tended to come in groups, leaving their husbands at home. His experience whispered that a spouse ensconced at home need not present a problem. The power of the stage worked wonders, opening doors that had never before been opened. Her gaze revealed that the lecture would be worth the effort.
‘This was the question to which my father devoted his whole body of work, trying to depict it. And notice that I do not say “answer”, but merely “depict”. My father’s sole driving force as an author consisted of an attempt to disseminate the essence of Joseph Schultz’s action – what it was that made Joseph refuse to be blinded by the despair inherent in the idea that our choices are without meaning, and instead recognise that it is precisely our choices that make all the difference. Refusing to be cowed by the fear and selfishness we all detest but which continually seem to leave their mark on us and our decisions.’
He paused. He usually did so at this point in the lecture, and as always his audience now sat spellbound by his words, actually perhaps not his words, but his father’s. Yet now it was he, Jan-Erik, who was conveying those words. Their voices were similar, and after years of giving lectures he had smoothed away the differences. By now their voices were scarcely distinguishable. Recordings of his father’s legendary readings could be found in every home; his voice had become a national treasure. But the precious recordings were now the only remnant of Axel Ragnerfeldt’s voice. A stroke five years ago had silenced him, and it was Jan-Erik’s turn to carry on his cultural inheritance. The books had been translated all over the world, and each year the royalty payments poured into the family business, which over the years had turned into a small empire, with foundations and grants for charitable works. As well as a considerable salary for Jan-Erik, who was the president of the corporation and saw to it that everything ran smoothly. He had more requests to give lectures than he had time for, but he took on a good number of them. He enjoyed travelling. A euphemism for the fact that he felt no great eagerness to stay at home.
He had grown from the task. It had made him significant.
‘Perhaps Joseph Schultz realised that death would take him even if he chose to remain with his comrades and fire his weapon. Perhaps he realised that if he chose the easy way out and obeyed the order, he would execute not only those fourteen men but also the last little sliver inside himself that made him a human being. That last little part of us that has to remain intact so we can face ourselves in the mirror when we get up in the morning. Perhaps he realised that once it was gone, he would no longer be truly alive. He would merely survive until death finally caught up with him.’
He clicked on the mouse and the photograph of Joseph Schultz’s heroic act vanished. In its place appeared a close-up of his father, one of the few he had ever permitted his publisher to use.
‘Joseph Schultz’s action in wartime never conquered any country. He saved no lives; fifteen men died instead of fourteen. His unique spirit and civil courage never won a medal for bravery on the battlefield. His name is unknown to most people, while that of Hitler, Göring and Mengele have taken their places in the history books. But perhaps the most surprising thing of all is that sixty-five years later Joseph Schultz’s decision arouses more wonder than that of his comrades-in-arms. His action seems astounding, despite the fact that all he did was what most of us realise was the right thing. Because if we were to choose, who would we rather be? Joseph Schultz or one of the others in the patrol?’
Silently let your gaze sweep over the hall.
‘Who besides me wants to be like Joseph?’
Jan-Erik sensed the wave that swept over the audience. The spotlight was hot on his face. Every pore in his body was wide open, welcoming the feeling that filled him. As usual, just after these words, he left his notes on the podium and walked slowly to the centre of the stage, standing on the spot he had marked in advance and keeping his eyes on the floor at his feet. Apparently vulnerable and without the protection afforded by the podium, he seemed to join with the audience as he slowly raised his eyes.
‘My father and Joseph Schultz both knew that our actions are like our children. They live on, and they continue to have an effect independent of us and our will. Joseph Schultz and my father belong to the minority who realise that the reward for a good deed is the very fact of having done it. That is important, very important. They have shown that by con quering our own fear we also conquer our mightiest foe. I am eternally grateful to have a father like Axel Ragnerfeldt, and to have the opportunity to continue to spread his message.’
The applause was spontaneous as always. He had opened himself up and made things personal, made the audience believe that they were all basically the same, like one big family. But he was not finished.
‘My motivation for coming here tonight is to continue to spread this message. So let us follow in my father’s footsteps and make Joseph Schultz our example.’
He gave her a searching glance and everything was in place. He was pleased to hear that her applause was different from the others’. A bit slower, a bit more considered, a bit more you’re fantastic, but don’t think you can get what you want. Precisely the signal that proved he could get exactly what he wanted. He smiled to himself at his success.
It was time for questions. The lights came up in the hall and he could finally see his audience. The unidentifiable sea suddenly became faces, and he retreated to his place behind the podium. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the moment. The one moment that remained before his father would recapture everyone’s attention. Liberated from the nursing home where he physically resided, his spirit would sweep into the room and obliterate the evening’s performance.
Axel Ragnerfeldt, who had reached the level of success that most parents wish for their children.
An older man at the back of the hall held up his hand and Jan-Erik granted him the floor. Don’t point like a woman. Use your whole hand.
‘I’d like to ask about the book Shadow.’
The man spoke with an accent. The novel he wanted to ask about had resulted in the Nobel Prize. It was the one Jan-Erik got the most questions about; the last book in a series of literary triumphs that had finally convinced the Swedish Academy. In the year 2000 the novel’s main character Simone had been voted the twentieth century’s best literary portrait of a woman, in stiff competition with Vilhelm Moberg’s Kristina in The Emigrants.
‘As everyone knows, countless articles have been written about the book, but I’m fascinated that he could make the story so true to life. I was fourteen when I was released from Buchenwald. For someone like me who experienced a concentration camp it’s hard to understand how a person who was never a prisoner could describe it so precisely. Your father must have done a huge amount of research, since the book is full of so many facts that match reality. I’d just like to ask how he went about this.’
Jan-Erik smiled. The answer was actually short and simple. I have no idea. But he couldn’t say that. It took a bi
t more to satisfy the public interest.
‘My father was very private about his work methods and never shared them with anyone. Nor has he ever talked about his research or where his ideas actually came from. My father called his writing time “a condition in which he found himself” when the words simply came to him; he considered himself merely a recipient.’
That may have been true but it offered no real explanation. He had always wondered the same thing himself.
More questions followed. None of them was out of the ordinary. During the entire session he avoided her eyes, wanting her to have to wonder for a while, afraid that she had lost him. But the whole time he was conscious of her presence. At the edge of his field of vision he noticed every movement.
He always concluded by reading aloud, knowing that their similar voices were the best way to dupe people. The lights went down and the picture of his father in the background faded away. The little reading lamp on the podium was the only light required onstage. He often read the same passage. He had studied his father’s recording and learned his inton ation and rhythm. Now and then he raised his eyes and looked at her over the rim of his reading glasses. Outside these events he always wore contact lenses, but glasses made him look more like the original.
He knew the final sentences by heart. He had read them so many times, and now he could gaze out over the audience.
Shadow Page 2
