Britta stiffened. ‘Frans? Yes, well, Frans was also in our group.’
‘It sounds as though you weren’t too keen on Frans.’
‘Not keen on him? Oh, but I was. I was terribly in love with him. But the feeling wasn’t mutual. He only had eyes for . . . someone else.’
‘Oh? And who was that?’ asked Erica, even though she thought she knew the answer.
‘Your mother. He followed her around like a puppy. Not that it did any good. Elsy would never have fallen for someone like Frans. Only a silly goose like me would make that mistake, because all I cared about then was how a boy looked. And he was definitely attractive. In that slightly dangerous way that seems so enticing to teenage girls but terrifying when they get older.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Erica. ‘Dangerous men seem to be enticing even to older women.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Britta, looking out the window. ‘But, as luck would have it, I grew out of that phase. And grew out of liking Frans. He . . . he wasn’t the sort of man I wanted in my life. Not like my Herman.’
‘Aren’t you judging yourself a bit harshly? You don’t seem like a silly goose to me.’
‘No, not now. But I might as well admit it – until I met Herman and had my first child . . . No, I was not a nice girl.’
Britta’s candour surprised Erica. That was quite a harsh opinion she had of herself.
‘What about Erik? What was he like?’
Again Britta turned her gaze to the window. She seemed to be considering how to answer. Then her expression softened. ‘Erik was like a little old man even as a child. But I don’t mean that in a negative way. He just seemed old for his age. And sensible, in an adult sort of way. He was always thinking about things. And reading. His nose was always in some book or other. Frans used to tease him about that. But Erik was probably a bit odd because of who his brother was.’
‘I understand that Axel was very popular.’
‘Axel was a hero. And the person who admired him most was Erik. He worshipped the ground his brother walked on. In Erik’s eyes, Axel could do no wrong.’ Britta patted Erica’s leg and then stood up abruptly. ‘You know what? I’m going to put on some coffee. Elsy’s daughter. How nice. So very nice.’
Erica stayed where she was while Britta disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the clattering of china and trickling of water. Then not another sound. Erica waited calmly, sitting on the sofa and enjoying the view that stretched out in front of her. But after a few more minutes of silence, she started to smell something burning. ‘Britta?’ she called. ‘Is everything all right?’ No answer. She got up and went out to the kitchen to look for her hostess.
Britta was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. One of the burners on the stove was glowing a fiery red. An empty coffee pot stood on it, and it had just started to smoke. Erica rushed over to pull the pot off the stove. ‘Damn!’ she cried as she burned her hand. To quell the pain, she stuck her hand under running water. Then she turned to Britta.
‘Britta?’ she said gently. The woman’s face had taken on such a vacant expression that for a moment Erica was afraid she must have suffered some sort of seizure. But then Britta turned to look at her.
‘To think that you finally came over to say hello to me, Elsy.’
Erica gave her a puzzled look. She said, ‘Britta, I’m Erica, Elsy’s daughter.’
The words didn’t seem to register with the old woman. ‘Oh, Elsy,’ she said, ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, to explain. But I just couldn’t . . .’
‘What couldn’t you explain? What did you want to talk to Elsy about?’ Erica sat down across from Britta, her heart racing. For the first time she felt as if she were on the verge of discovering whatever secret it was that Erik and Axel had tried to hide from her.
But Britta just looked at her in confusion. Resisting the urge to shake her, force her to say what had been on the tip of her tongue, Erica repeated the question: ‘What couldn’t you explain? Something about my mother? What is it?’
Britta waved her hand dismissively but then leaned forward across the table. In a voice that was almost a whisper she hissed: ‘Wanted to talk to you. But old bones. Must. Rest in peace. Will serve no purpose to . . . Erik said that . . . unknown soldier . . .’ Her voice faded into a murmur and she stared into space again.
‘What bones? What are you talking about? What did Erik say?’ Without being aware of it, Erica was raising her voice. In the silence of the kitchen it sounded almost like a shriek. Britta clasped her hands over her ears and began babbling something incoherent, the way children do when they don’t want to listen to someone scolding them.
‘What’s going on here? Who are you?’ An angry male voice behind Erica made her spin round. A tall man with grey hair encircling a bald pate had appeared in the doorway clutching two Konsum grocery bags. Erica realized he must be Herman. She stood up.
‘I’m sorry, I . . . My name is Erica Falck. Britta knew my mother when they were young, and I just wanted to ask her a few questions. It seemed harmless enough at first . . . but then . . . And she’d turned on the stove.’ Erica could hear that she wasn’t making any sense, but nothing about the situation seemed to make sense. Behind her, Britta’s childish babble continued unabated.
‘My wife has Alzheimer’s,’ said Herman, setting down the bags. Hearing the sorrow in his voice, Erica felt a pang of guilt. Alzheimer’s – she should have guessed, given the rapid shift between perfect clarity and utter confusion. She’d read somewhere that the brains of Alzheimer’s patients forced them into a kind of borderland where, in the end, only fog remained.
Herman went over to his wife and gently removed her hands from her ears. ‘Britta, dear. I just had to go out to do the shopping. I’m back now. Shhh, it’s all right, everything is fine.’ He rocked her in his arms, and gradually the babbling stopped. He looked up at Erica. ‘It’s best if you leave now. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t come back.’
‘But your wife mentioned something about . . . I need to know . . .’ Erica stumbled over her words, attempting to find the right thing to say, but Herman merely glared at her and said firmly:
‘Don’t come back.’
Feeling like an intruder, Erica slipped out of the house. Behind her she heard Herman speaking in a soothing tone to his wife. But in her head Britta’s confused words about old bones still echoed. What could she have meant?
The geraniums were unusually splendid this summer. Viola walked around, lovingly plucking the withered petals. Dead-heading was a necessity if she wanted them to stay beautiful. By now her geranium beds were quite impressive. Each year she took cuttings and carefully planted them in small pots. As soon they’d grown big enough she would transfer them to a larger pot. Her favourite was the Mårbacka geranium. Nothing could match its beauty. There was something about the combination of the gossamer pink blossoms and the slightly ungainly and straggly stems that moved her beyond words. But the rose pelargonium was lovely too.
There were lots of geranium afficionados out there. Since her son had initiated her into the splendours of the Internet, she’d become a member of three different geranium forums and subscribed to four newsletters. But she found the most joy in exchanging emails with Lasse Anrell. If there was anyone who loved geraniums more than she did, it was him. They’d been corresponding by email ever since she attended one of his lectures. She’d had many questions to ask him that evening and he’d signed a copy of his book on geraniums for her. They’d taken a liking to each other, and now she looked forward to the emails that regularly appeared in her inbox. Erik used to tease her about that, saying she must be having an affair with Lasse Anrell behind his back, and that all the talk about geraniums was just a code for more amorous activities. Eric had his own theory as to what each term might mean; ‘rose pelargonium’ had a particular fascination for him, and he’d taken to calling her Rose Pelargonium . . . Viola blushed at the thought, but the crimson qui
ckly disappeared from her face to be replaced by tears. For the thousandth time in the past few days, she was confronted with the realization that Erik was gone.
The soil eagerly soaked up the water as she cautiously poured a little into each saucer. It was important not to over-water geraniums. The soil should dry out properly in between waterings. In many ways, that was an appropriate metaphor for the relationship that she’d had with Erik. They were like two plants whose soil had been parched when they’d met, and they were fearful of over-watering. Thus they continued to live apart, they maintained their separate lives and saw each other only when they both felt like getting together. Early on, they’d made a promise that their relationship would be a mutual exchange of tenderness, love, and good conversation. Whenever the spirit moved them. The trivialities of daily life would never be allowed to weigh it down.
Hearing the knock on the door, Viola set down the watering can and wiped the tears on the sleeve of her blouse. She took a deep breath, cast one last glance at her geraniums to give herself strength, and went to open the door.
Chapter 14
Fjällbacka 1943
‘Britta, calm down. What happened? Is he drunk again?’ Elsy stroked her friend’s back to soothe her as they sat on her bed. Britta nodded. She tried to say something, but it came out as a sob. Elsy pulled her close, still stroking her back.
‘Shhh . . . Soon you’ll be able to move out. Get a job somewhere. Get away from all the misery at home.’
‘I’m never . . . I’m never coming back,’ sobbed Britta, leaning against her friend.
Elsy could feel her blouse getting wet from Britta’s tears, but she didn’t care.
‘Was he mean to your mother again?’
Britta nodded. ‘He slapped her face. I didn’t see any more after that. I took off. Oh, if only I were a boy, I would have punched him until he was black and blue.’
‘It would be such a waste of a pretty face if you were a boy,’ said Elsy, hugging Britta and laughing. She knew her friend well enough to realize that a little flattery could always brighten her mood.
‘Very funny,’ said Britta, her sobs subsiding. ‘But I feel sorry for my little brothers and sister.’
‘There’s not much you can do about that,’ said Elsy, picturing Britta’s three younger siblings. Her throat tightened with anger when she thought of how miserable their father had made things for his family. Tord Johansson was notorious in Fjällbacka as an evil-tempered drunk. Several times a week he would beat his wife Ruth, a frightened creature who would hide the bruises on her face behind a kerchief if she was forced to show herself outside the house after a beating. Sometimes the children, too, suffered the brunt of his anger, but so far the beatings had been reserved for Britta’s two younger brothers. He hadn’t yet raised a hand to Britta and her younger sister.
‘If only he’d just die. Fall in the sea and drown when he’s drunk,’ whispered Britta.
Elsy hugged her closer. ‘Shhh. You shouldn’t say things like that, Britta. With God’s providence, I’m sure it will all work out, one way or other. And without you having to commit a sin by wishing him dead.’
‘God?’ said Britta bitterly. ‘He’s never found His way to our house. And yet my mother still sits at home every Sunday, praying. A lot of good that’s done her! It’s easy for you to talk about God. Your parents are so nice, and you don’t have any brothers or sisters to compete with or take care of.’ Britta couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Elsy let go of her friend. In a friendly but slightly sharp tone she said: ‘Things aren’t always that easy for us, either. Mamma worries so much about my father that she’s getting thinner and thinner by the day. Ever since the Öckerö was torpedoed, she thinks that every trip my father makes in his boat will be his last. Sometimes I find her standing at the window staring out at the sea, as if she’s pleading with it to bring my father back home.’
‘Well, I don’t think that’s the same thing at all,’ said Britta, sniffing pitifully.
‘Of course it’s not the same thing. I just meant . . . oh, never mind.’ Elsy knew it was useless to continue the conversation. She loved her friend for all the good that she knew was inside her, but sometimes Britta could be incredibly self-centred.
They heard someone coming up the stairs, and Britta immediately sat up and began frantically wiping the tears from her face.
‘You’ve got visitors,’ said Hilma. Behind her Frans and Erik appeared on the stairs.
‘Hi!’
Elsy could tell that her mother wasn’t pleased, but she left them alone after saying: ‘Elsy, don’t forget that you need to deliver the laundry that I’ve done for the Östermans. You’ve got ten minutes until you have to go. And remember your father is due home any minute.’
When she had gone, Frans and Erik made themselves comfortable on the floor in Elsy’s room since there was nowhere else to sit.
‘It doesn’t sound like she wants us to come over here,’ said Frans.
‘My mother doesn’t believe people from different social classes should mix,’ said Elsy. ‘The two of you are upper class, though I don’t really know why anyone would think so.’ She gave them a mischievous smile, and Frans stuck out his tongue in reply. Erik was looking at Britta.
‘How’s it going, Britta?’ he said quietly. ‘It looks like you’re feeling bad about something.’
‘None of your business,’ she snapped, holding her head high.
‘Probably just a girl’s problem,’ said Frans with a laugh.
Britta gave him an adoring look and a big smile. But her eyes were still red-rimmed.
‘Why do you always think everything is so funny, Frans?’ asked Elsy, clasping her hands in her lap. ‘Some people have a hard time, you know. Not everybody is like you and Erik. The war has brought hardships to so many families. You ought to think about that once in a while.’
‘How did I get dragged into this?’ asked Erik, offended. ‘We all know that Frans is an ignorant fool, but to accuse me of not being aware that people are suffering . . .’ He gave Elsy an insulted look but then jumped and yelled ‘Ow’ when Frans punched him in the arm.
‘Ignorant fool? I beg to differ. The fools are the ones who talk about “not being aware that people are suffering”. You sound like you’re eighty years old. At least. All those books you read aren’t good for your health. They’re making you weird up here.’ Frans tapped his finger on his temple.
‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to him,’ said Elsy wearily. Sometimes the boys’ constant squabbling got her down. They were so childish.
A sound from downstairs made her face light up. ‘Pappa’s home!’ She smiled happily at her three friends and headed downstairs to see him. But halfway down she stopped, realizing that the cheerful tones that she usually heard when her father came home were missing entirely. Instead their voices rose and fell, sounding upset. As soon as she saw him, she knew that something was terribly wrong. His face was ashen, and he was running one hand over his hair, the way he always did when he was especially worried.
‘Pappa?’ she said hesitantly, feeling her heart pounding. What could have happened? She tried to catch his eye, but she saw that his gaze was fixed on Erik, who had come down behind her. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but then closed it again, unable to utter a word. Finally he managed to say, ‘Erik, I think you should go home. Your mother and father . . . are going to need you.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’ Then Erik clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized that Elsy’s father was about to give him bad news. ‘Axel? Is he . . .?’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but kept swallowing hard as if to make the lump in his throat go away. An image of Axel’s lifeless body raced through his mind. How could he face his mother and father? How could he . . .?
‘He’s not dead,’ said Elof, when he realized what the boy was thinking. ‘He’s not dead,’ he repeated. ‘But the Germans have him.’
Erik’s expression turned t
o bewilderment. The relief and joy he had felt upon hearing that Axel wasn’t dead were quickly replaced by worry and dismay at the thought of his brother in the hands of the enemy.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you home,’ said Elof. His whole body seemed weighed down by the responsibility of telling Axel’s parents that their son wasn’t coming back this time.
Chapter 15
Paula smiled contentedly as she sat in the back seat. There was something so pleasant and familiar about the way Patrik and Martin were bickering with each other in the front seat. At the moment Martin was in the middle of a long diatribe about Patrik’s driving; putting up with it was not something he’d missed. But it was obvious that the two men were fond of each other, and already she had formed a great respect for Patrik.
Thus far, Tanumshede seemed to have been a good move. From the moment she arrived, it felt as if she’d come home. She had lived in Stockholm for so many years that she’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Maybe Tanumshede in some way reminded her of the little town in Chile where she’d spent her early years. She couldn’t find any other explanation for why she’d so quickly adapted to the place. There was nothing she missed about Stockholm. Perhaps that wasn’t Stockholm’s fault; as a police officer, she’d seen the worst of the worst, and that had tainted her view of the city. But in truth she’d never felt at home there, even as a child. She and her mother had been part of an early wave of immigrants; they were assigned a tiny flat on the outskirts of Stockholm, in a neighbourhood where their dark eyes and black hair set them apart. She was the only one in her class who hadn’t been born in Sweden. And she’d had to pay for that. Every day, every minute, she’d paid for the fact that she’d been born in a different country. It didn’t help that after only a year she could speak perfect Swedish, without a trace of an accent. She was an outsider.
The Hidden Child Page 14
