The woman on the phone had told him the news about Erik in a tone of voice that was both sympathetic and distant. He could tell from her manner that this was not the first time she’d notified someone about a death.
His head swam as he thought how many times such news had been delivered throughout history. Conversations with the police, a pastor standing on the doorstep, an envelope with a military seal. All those millions and millions of people who had died. And each time someone must have conveyed the news.
Axel tugged at his earlobe. Over the years this had become an unconscious habit. He was practically deaf in his left ear, and touching it seemed to calm the constant rushing sound.
He shifted his gaze to look out the window but saw only his own reflection. The grey, furrowed face of a man in his eighties, with sorrowful, deep-set eyes. He touched his face. For a moment he imagined that he was looking at Erik instead.
With a thud the wheels touched down. He had arrived.
Wary of another ‘accident’ in his office, Mellberg took down the dog lead that he’d hung on a hook and attached it to Ernst’s collar.
‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ he grunted, and Ernst scampered joyfully towards the front door, moving at a speed that forced Bertil to trot after him.
‘You’re supposed to be walking the dog, not vice versa,’ remarked Annika with amusement as they rushed past.
‘I’d be happy to let you take him out,’ snapped Mellberg, but he continued towards the door.
Stupid mutt. His arms were aching from holding the dog back. But once Ernst had lifted his leg to a bush the sense of urgency dissipated and they were able to continue on their walk at a more sedate pace. Mellberg even found himself whistling. This isn’t so bad after all, he thought. Some fresh air and a little exercise might do him good. And Ernst had settled into sniffing at the wooded path they were walking along, calm as could be. Just like a person, he could sense when someone with a firm hand was in control. There shouldn’t be any problem training the mutt properly.
At that moment Ernst stopped, his ears pricked forward and every muscle tensed in his sinewy body. Then he exploded into motion.
‘Ernst? What the –?’ Mellberg was yanked forward so fast that he almost fell on his face, but at the last second he managed to keep his footing and hung on as the dog set off at a gallop.
‘Ernst! Ernst! Stop! Stop right now! Heel!’ Mellberg was panting from the unaccustomed physical effort, and that made it hard for him to shout. The dog ignored his commands. As they came flying around a corner, Mellberg saw what it was that had precipitated their flight. Ernst threw himself at a big, light-coloured dog that looked to be of a similar breed, and the two began romping around each other while their owners tugged at the leads.
‘Señorita! Stop that! Sit!’ The short, dark-haired woman spoke in a harsh tone, and her dog obediently backed away from Ernst, who continued to ignore Mellberg’s remonstrations. ‘Bad dog, Señorita! You shouldn’t be carrying on like that.’ Looking suitably abashed, Señorita peered up at her owner from under a shaggy fringe.
‘I . . . I . . . must apologize,’ Mellberg stammered, tugging at the lead to prevent Ernst launching himself at the other dog who, judging by the name, must be female.
‘You clearly have no control over your dog.’ Her sharp tone of voice had him fighting back the urge to stand to attention. She had a slight accent and this, together with her flashing dark eyes, gave him the impression she must come from some southern country.
‘Well, it’s not really my dog. I’m just taking care of him until . . .’ Mellberg heard himself stammering like a teenager. He cleared his throat and attempted to sound a bit more authoritative. ‘I’m not used to dogs. And he’s not mine anyway.’
‘He seems to have a different opinion about that.’ She pointed to Ernst who was pressed close to Mellberg’s leg, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
‘Er, well . . .’ said Mellberg, embarrassed.
‘Shall we continue walking the dogs together? My name is Rita.’ She held out her hand, and after a slight hesitation, he shook it.
‘I’ve had dogs all my life, so I’m sure I can give you a few tips. Besides, it’s much more pleasant to walk with somebody to keep me company.’ She didn’t wait for a reply before starting off along the path. Without knowing how it had happened, Mellberg found himself keeping step with her, as if his feet had a will of their own. And Ernst had no objections. He fell in beside Señorita, wagging his tail vigorously.
Chapter 6
Fjällbacka 1943
‘Erik? Frans?’ Britta and Elsy cautiously stepped inside. They’d knocked but received no answer. They glanced around nervously. The doctor and his wife probably wouldn’t be pleased to find two girls coming over to visit their son while they were away. Usually they met in Fjällbacka, but on bold impulse Erik had suggested that the girls come to the house since his parents would be out all day.
‘Erik?’ Elsy called a little louder and then jumped when she heard someone say ‘Shhh’ from the room directly in front of them. Erik appeared in the doorway and motioned for them to come in.
‘Axel is upstairs asleep. He came back this morning.’
‘Oh, he’s so brave,’ said Britta with a sigh, but her face lit up when she saw Frans.
‘Hi!’
‘Hi,’ said Frans but he was looking past her. ‘Hi, Elsy.’
‘Hi, Frans,’ replied Elsy, but then she headed straight for the bookshelves.
‘My, what a lot of books you have!’ She ran her fingers over the spines.
‘You can borrow some if you like,’ said Erik generously, although he added, ‘But only on condition that you take good care of them. Pappa is very particular about his books.’
‘Of course,’ said Elsy happily, devouring the rows of books with her eyes. She loved to read. Frans didn’t take his eyes off her for even a second.
‘Books are a waste of time,’ said Britta. ‘It’s much better to experience things yourself rather than just reading about other people’s experiences. Don’t you agree, Frans?’ She sat down in the chair next to him, tilting her head to look into his eyes.
‘One doesn’t necessarily have to exclude the other,’ he said gruffly but without meeting her gaze. He was still staring at Elsy. A furrow appeared on Britta’s forehead, and she jumped up from the chair.
‘Are any of you going to the dance on Saturday?’ She took a few dance steps across the floor.
‘I don’t think Mamma and Pappa will let me go,’ said Elsy in a low voice, still engrossed in the books.
‘Who do you think will be there?’ said Britta, dancing some more. She tried to pull Frans to his feet, but he resisted and managed to stay seated in the armchair.
‘Stop fooling around.’ His tone of voice was brusque, but then he couldn’t help laughing. ‘Britta, you’re crazy, do you know that?’
‘Don’t you like crazy girls? If not, I can be serious too.’ She put on a stern expression. ‘Or happy.’ She laughed so loud that the sound echoed off the walls.
‘Shhh,’ said Erik, glancing up at the ceiling.
‘Or I can be very quiet,’ whispered Britta melodramatically, and Frans laughed again, pulling her down on to his lap.
‘Crazy will do just fine.’
A voice from the doorway interrupted them.
‘What a ruckus you’re making.’ There stood Axel, leaning against the door jamb and smiling tiredly.
‘Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you.’ Erik’s voice was brimming with the awe that he felt towards his brother, but he also looked worried.
‘It doesn’t matter, Erik. I can take a nap later.’ Axel folded his arms and said, ‘So, looks like you’re taking advantage of our parents going out to visit the Axelssons by having a few ladies over.’
‘Er, I don’t know if I’d call it that,’ muttered Erik.
Frans laughed, still with Britta perched on his lap. ‘Do you see ladies anywhere? There isn’t a lady in
sight. Just two saucy little girls.’
‘Shut up, why don’t you!’ Britta punched Frans in the chest. She did not look amused.
‘And Elsy is so busy looking at the books that she hasn’t even said hello.’
Elsy turned around, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. Hello, Axel.’
‘I was just kidding you. Go back to the books. Did Erik tell you that you could borrow some if you like?’
‘Yes, he did.’ Still blushing, she quickly turned her attention back to the bookshelves.
‘How’d it go yesterday?’ Erik was looking at his brother as if hungry for every word.
Axel’s cheerful, open expression shut down at once. ‘Fine,’ he said curtly. ‘It went fine.’ Then he turned on his heel. ‘I’m going to lie down again for a while. Please try to keep the noise level to a minimum, okay?’
Erik watched his brother go. Besides the awe and pride that he felt, there was also a certain amount of envy.
But Frans was filled with nothing but admiration. ‘Your brother is so courageous . . . I wish I could help too. If only I were a few years older.’
‘And what would you do then?’ asked Britta, still sulking because he’d ridiculed her in front of Axel. ‘You’d never dare. And what would your father say? From what I’ve heard, it’s the Germans he’d rather lend a helping hand to.’
‘Cut it out,’ said Frans crossly, shoving Britta off his lap. ‘People say so many things. I didn’t think you listened to crap like that.’
Erik, who always played the role of mediator in the group, abruptly stood up and said, ‘We can listen to my father’s records for a while, if you want. He has Count Basie.’
He hurried over to the gramophone to put on the record. He didn’t like it when people argued. He really didn’t.
Chapter 7
She’d always loved airports: the planes landing and taking off, the travellers with eyes full of anticipation as they set off on holiday or on a business trip, and all the coming and going, with people reuniting or saying their farewells. She remembered an airport from a long, long time ago. The crush of people, the smells, the colours, the hum of voices. The tension that she sensed rather than saw in her mother’s face and the way she held Paula’s hand in a tight grip. The suitcase that she’d packed and repacked and then packed again. Everything had to be right, because this was going to be a trip with no return. She remembered too the heat, and then the chill when they arrived. She would never have believed it possible to be so cold. And the airport where they landed was different. Quieter, with cold grey paint. No one spoke loudly, no one waved their hands around. Everybody seemed locked inside their own little bubbles. No one looked them in the eye. Their documents were stamped and then they were sent on their way by a strange-sounding voice in a strange-sounding language. And her mother had kept a tight grip on her hand the whole time.
‘Is that him?’ Martin pointed at a man in his eighties who had just exited the passport control area. He was tall, with grey hair, and he wore a beige trench coat. Very stylish, thought Paula immediately.
‘Let’s find out.’ She led the way. ‘Axel Frankel?’
The man nodded. ‘You’re from the police? I thought I was supposed to come and see you at the station.’ He looked tired.
‘We thought we might as well come out here to meet you.’ Martin gave him a friendly nod, introducing himself and his colleague.
‘I see. Well, in that case, I thank you for offering to give me a lift. I usually have to make do with public transport, so this will be a treat.’
‘Do you have a suitcase?’ Paula cast a glance at the luggage belt.
‘No, no, this is all I brought.’ He gestured towards the carry-on bag he was pulling behind him. ‘I always travel light.’
‘An art I’ve never mastered,’ said Paula with a laugh. The weariness on the man’s face vanished for a moment as he laughed too.
They chatted about the weather until they all got into the car and Martin began driving towards Fjällbacka.
‘Have you . . . have you found out anything more?’ Axel’s voice quavered and he had to stop talking in order to pull himself together.
Paula, who was sitting next to him on the back seat, shook her head. ‘No, unfortunately. We were hoping that you could help us. For example, we need to know whether your brother had any enemies. Is there anyone who might have wanted to harm him?’
Axel shook his head. ‘No, no, not really. My brother was the most peaceful and placid man, and . . . no, it’s absurd to think that anyone would want to harm Erik.’
‘What do you know about his involvement with a group called Sweden’s Friends?’ Martin tossed out the question from his place in the driver’s seat, meeting Axel’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.
‘So you’ve gone through Erik’s correspondence with Frans Ringholm.’ Axel rubbed the bridge of his nose before he said anything more. Paula and Martin waited patiently.
‘It’s a complicated story that started a very long time ago.’
‘We have plenty of time,’ said Paula, making it clear that she was expecting him to answer the question.
‘Frans is a childhood friend of mine and Erik’s. We’ve known each other all our lives. But . . . how should I put it? We chose one path and Frans chose another.’
‘Frans is a right-wing extremist?’ Again Martin met Axel’s gaze in the mirror.
Axel nodded. ‘Yes, I don’t really know in what way or to what extent, but all through his adult life he’s mixed in those circles, and he even helped to start that group called Sweden’s Friends. He probably picked up a lot of his views from home, although back when I knew him he never showed any such sympathies. But people change.’ Axel shook his head.
‘Why would this organization feel threatened by Erik? From what I understand, he wasn’t politically active. He was a historian specializing in the Second World War, right?’
Axel sighed. ‘It’s not that easy to remain neutral. You can’t research Nazism and at the same time remain, or be viewed as, apolitical. For instance, many neo-Nazi organizations dispute that the concentration camps existed, and all attempts to describe the camps and investigate what happened are regarded as a threat or an attack on their group. As I said, it’s complicated.’
‘What about your own involvement in the issue? Have you ever received any threats?’ Paula studied him closely.
‘Of course I have. To a much greater extent than Erik. My life’s mission has been working with the Simon Wiesenthal Center.’
‘And what exactly does the Center do?’ asked Martin.
‘The organization tracks down Nazis who have fled and gone underground. And it sees that they’re brought to justice,’ Paula explained.
Axel nodded. ‘That’s right, among other things. So yes, I’ve received my share of threats.’
‘Do you still have any of the actual letters?’ Martin asked.
‘The Center has them. Those of us who work for the Center send in any letters we get so they can be kept in the archives. If you contact them they’ll give you access to everything.’ He handed his business card to Paula, who put it in her jacket pocket.
‘And Sweden’s Friends? Have you received any threats from them?’
‘No . . . I don’t think so. No, not that I can recall. But as I said, you should check with the Center. They have everything.’
‘Frans Ringholm. How does he fit into the picture? You said he was a childhood friend?’ Martin enquired.
‘To be precise, he was Erik’s childhood friend. I was a couple of years older, so we didn’t really have the same circle of friends.’
‘But Erik knew Frans well?’ Paula’s brown eyes again studied Axel intently.
‘Yes, but that was ages ago. We’re going back sixty years here.’ Axel didn’t seem very comfortable with the topic of conversation. He kept shifting position on the back seat. ‘Even without dementia, the old memory starts to get a bit murky.’ He smiled wryly as he tapped his head.
> ‘But there’s been more recent contact, judging by the letters we found. Frans has been in touch with your brother repeatedly, at least by letter.’
Axel ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. ‘I’ve lived my life, and my brother has lived his. And it was only three years ago that we both settled in Fjällbacka permanently – well, semi-permanently, in my case. Erik had a flat in Göteborg during all the years he worked there, and I’ve spent my time more or less travelling around the world. Of course we’ve always had the house here as our base, and if anyone asks me where I live, I tell them Fjällbacka. But in the summertime I always flee to my flat in Paris. I can’t take all the hustle and bustle that comes with the tourists. For the most part we live a rather quiet and isolated life, my brother and I. The cleaning lady is the only one who ever visits us. We prefer . . . preferred it that way.’ Axel’s voice broke.
Paula caught Martin’s eye, and he shook his head slightly before returning his gaze to the motorway. Neither of them could think of anything else to ask. They spent the rest of the drive to Fjällbacka chatting tensely about trivial matters. Axel looked as if he might fall apart at any moment, and he seemed visibly relieved when they finally pulled up in front of his house.
‘Do you have any problem with . . . staying here now?’ Paula asked.
Axel stood in silence for a moment, his eyes fixed on the big white house, his carry-on bag in his hand. Finally he said:
‘No. This is my home, and Erik’s. We belong here. Both of us.’ He smiled sadly and shook hands with them before heading for the front door. To Paula, gazing after him, it seemed that he exuded loneliness.
The Hidden Child Page 7
