The Hidden Child

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘We’re on our way to Uddevalla to see him now. But why don’t I give you my mobile number, just in case you happen to think of something.’ Martin wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Axel, who slipped it inside his diary.

  Paula and Martin got back in the car and continued their journey without speaking. But they were both thinking the same thing: What was it they were not seeing?

  ‘We can’t put it off any more. She won’t be able to stay here at home much longer.’ Herman looked at his daughters with such deep despair that they could hardly stand to return his gaze.

  ‘We know that, Pappa. You’re doing the right thing. There’s no other option. You’ve taken care of Mamma for as long as you could, but now others will have to step in. We’ll find a really great place for her.’ Anna-Greta went to stand behind her father’s chair, wrapping her arms around him. She shuddered to feel how gaunt his body felt under his shirt. Their mother’s illness had taken a heavy toll on him. Perhaps more than they’d known. Or wanted to see. She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Herman’s.

  ‘We’re here to help you, Pappa. Birgitta and Maggan and our families. You know we’re here for you. You never need to feel alone.’

  ‘Without your mother, I do feel alone. But there’s nothing to be done about it,’ said Herman listlessly, quickly wiping away a tear with his shirtsleeve. ‘Still, I know that this is best for Britta. I know that.’

  His daughters exchanged glances over their father’s head. Herman and Britta had been the centre of all their lives, a solid rock that they could always depend on. Now the very foundation of their lives was crumbling, and they reached out as if to steady each other. It was frightening to watch their mother shrink, becoming more and more diminished until she seemed smaller than themselves. Now it was necessary for them to step in and be the adults, taking on the burden of the ones they had always regarded, throughout their entire childhood and adolescence, as infallible, indestructible. Of course, they had long since ceased to look upon their parents as godlike creatures who had the answer to everything, but it was still painful to watch Britta and Herman fading this way.

  Anna-Greta hugged her father’s gaunt form a few more times and then sat down at the kitchen table again.

  ‘Will she manage all right while you’re here?’ asked Maggan, looking worried. ‘Should I run over and look in on her?’

  ‘She had just fallen asleep when I left,’ said Herman. ‘But she usually doesn’t sleep more than an hour, so I’d better go back home.’ Wearily he got to his feet.

  ‘Why don’t we go over there and stay with her for a couple of hours? Then you can take a rest,’ said Birgitta. ‘Pappa could lie down in your guest room, couldn’t he?’ she asked Maggan, since it was at her house they had gathered in to talk about their mother.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ said Maggan, nodding eagerly at her father. ‘Go in and rest for a while, and we’ll nip over to be with Mamma.’

  ‘Thank you, girls,’ said Herman, as he headed for the hall. ‘But your mother and I have taken care of each other for over fifty years, and I’d like to continue to take care of her for the short time that we have left. Once she’s settled in the nursing home, then . . .’ He didn’t finish his sentence but instead rushed out the door before his daughters could see his tears.

  Britta smiled in her sleep. The lucid moments that her brain denied her when she was awake became all the more frequent when she slept. Then she saw everything clearly. Some of the memories were not welcome but forced themselves upon her nevertheless. Like the sound of her father’s belt striking a child’s bare behind. Or the sight of her mother’s tear-stained cheeks. Or the cramped confines of the little house on the hill, where the shrill cries of a child echoed in the space, making her want to clap her hands over her ears and scream too. But there were other things that were more pleasant to recall. Like the summers when they played merrily, racing over the rocks warmed by the sun. Elsy in one of the floral dresses that her mother had made by hand. Erik in his short pants, with his solemn face. Frans with his curly blond hair. She had always longed to run her fingers through his curls, even back when they were so young that there seemed no significant difference between boys and girls.

  A voice forced its way through the memories as she slept. A voice that was all too familiar. It had been speaking to her more and more often lately. Not allowing her any peace, whether she was awake, asleep, or wrapped in a haze. The voice that penetrated through everything, wanted everything, insisted on taking a place in her world. The voice that denied her respite, refused to let her forget. The voice that she thought she’d never hear again. Yet here it was. So strange. And so frightening.

  She rolled her head from side to side in her sleep, trying to shake off the voice, shake off the memories that were disturbing her rest. Finally she succeeded. Happy memories came to the fore. The first time she saw Herman. The moment when she knew that the two of them would spend their lives together. Their wedding, walking down the aisle in her white gown, giddy with happiness. The labour pains and then the love when Anna-Greta was born. And Birgitta and Margareta, whom she loved just as much. Herman taking care of the children, doing it out of love, not out of duty or obligation. She smiled. Her eyelids fluttered. This was where she wanted to stay. Here, with these memories. If she had to choose a single memory to fill her mind for the rest of her life, it was the image of Herman bathing their youngest daughter in the little bathtub. He was humming as he carefully supported her small head with his hand. With infinite gentleness he rubbed her chubby body with a washcloth, looking into his daughter’s eyes as she followed his every move. Britta saw herself standing in the doorway, watching without drawing her husband’s attention. Even if she forgot everything else, she would fight to hold on to that memory. Herman and Margareta, his hand under her head, the tenderness and closeness.

  A sound forced her out of her dreams. She wanted to go back. Back to the sound of water splashing as Herman dipped the flannel in the basin. The sound of Margareta’s contented prattling as the warm water sloshed around her. But a new sound was forcing Britta closer to the surface. Closer to the fog that she wanted at all costs to avoid. Waking up meant risking being enveloped in the grey, confusing haze that took over her mind and had begun swallowing up more and more of her time.

  At last she reluctantly opened her eyes. Somebody was leaning over her, looking at her. Britta smiled. Maybe she wasn’t yet fully awake. Maybe she could still fend off the fog with the memories that came to her in her sleep.

  ‘Is that you?’ she asked, staring up at the person leaning over her. Her body felt loose-jointed and heavy with sleep, which hadn’t yet completely left her. She didn’t have the strength to move. For a moment neither of them spoke. There wasn’t much to say. Then a sense of certainty forced its way into Britta’s brain. Memories rose to the surface. Feelings that had been forgotten now flashed and awakened to life. And she felt terror take hold. The fear from which she’d been released because of her gradual loss of memory. Now she saw Death standing beside her bed, and her entire being protested at having to leave this life, leave everything that was hers. She gripped the sheet in her hands, but her parched lips could manage only a few guttural sounds. Terror spread through her body, making her roll her head rapidly from side to side. Desperately she tried to send thoughts to Herman, as if he might hear her through the telepathic waves. But she knew it was in vain. Death had come to get her, the scythe would soon fall, and there was no one who could help her. She would die alone in her bed. Without Herman. Without the girls. Without saying farewell. At that moment the fog was gone and her mind was clearer than it had been in a long time. With fear racing like a wild animal in her chest, she managed at last to take a deep breath and utter a scream. Death didn’t move. Just kept staring at her as she lay in bed, staring and smiling. Not an unfriendly smile, but that made it all the more frightening.

  Then Death leaned down and picked up the pillow f
rom Herman’s side of the bed. Terrified, Britta saw the white shape getting closer. The final fog.

  Her body protested for a moment. Panicked from the lack of air. Tried to take a breath, bring oxygen into her lungs. Her hands let go of the sheet, clutched wildly at the air. Struck resistance, struck skin. Tore and scratched, fighting to live another second.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 22

  Grini, Outside Oslo, 1944

  ‘Time to get up!’ The guard’s voice echoed through the barracks. ‘Five minutes, fall in for inspection.’

  Axel opened his eyes with an effort. For a second he was totally disoriented. It was dark in the barracks; at this early hour almost no light came in from outside. But it was still an improvement over the cell where he’d sat in isolation for the first few months. He preferred the cramped quarters and stench of the barracks to the long days of solitude. He’d heard that there were 3,500 prisoners at Grini. That didn’t surprise him. No matter where he turned, he saw men, all with the same resigned expression that he assumed matched his own.

  He sat up on his bunk and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Orders to stand in formation were issued several times a day, whenever the guards felt like it, and pity the man who didn’t move fast enough. But today he was having a hard time getting out of bed. He’d been dreaming of Fjällbacka. Dreaming about sitting up on Veddeberget, looking at the water and watching the seagulls shrieking as they circled above the masts of the boats. It was actually quite an ugly sound, but it had somehow become part of the town’s soul. He’d been dreaming of the way the wind felt as it enveloped him, warm and mild in the summertime. And of the smell of seaweed carried on the wind, even all the way up to the top of the hill, where he greedily breathed it in.

  But reality was far too raw and cold for him to be able to cling to his dream. Instead, he felt the rough fabric of the blanket against his skin as he threw it off and swung his legs over the side of the rickety bunk. Hunger was tearing at him. Of course they were given food, but not enough and not very often.

  ‘Time to get yourselves out there,’ said the younger guard, who was now walking among the prisoners. He stopped in front of Axel.

  ‘It’s cold today,’ he said in a friendly tone.

  Axel avoided looking at him. It was the same boy who’d been on duty when he first arrived, the one he’d regarded as friendlier than the others. And that had turned out to be true. He’d never seen the young man abuse or denigrate anyone in the same way that most of the other guards did. But the months that Axel had spent in prison had drawn a clear boundary between the two of them. Prisoner and guard. They were two very distinct entities. They lived such different lives that he could hardly bear to look at the guards when they came within sight. The Norwegian Guard uniform Axel wore marked him out as belonging to a lower class of humanity. From the other prisoners he’d learned that the uniform had been instituted after a prisoner had escaped in 1941. He wondered how the man had found the strength to flee. He himself felt listless, emptied of all energy from the combination of hard labour, too little food, too little sleep, and too much anxiety for those back at home. And too much misery in general.

  ‘You’d better get moving,’ said the young guard, giving him a shove.

  Axel did as he said and hurried out of the barracks. The consequences were harsh for anyone who showed up late for the morning inspection.

  As he went down the stairs to the yard, he suddenly stumbled. He felt his foot lose its hold on the step, and he pitched forward, falling against the guard who was right in front of him. He flailed his arms to regain his balance, but instead of air, he felt his hands touching the guard’s uniform and body. With a dull thud he landed on the man’s back, and the impact knocked the air out of Axel’s lungs. At first there was only silence. Then he felt hands hauling him to his feet.

  ‘He attacked you,’ said the guard who had a firm grip on him. His name was Jensen, and he was one of the most ruthless of the guards.

  ‘I don’t think –’ said the young guard hesitantly as he got up, brushing dirt off his uniform.

  ‘I said he attacked you!’ Jensen’s face was bright red. He took every opportunity to abuse the men who were in his power. Whenever he walked through the camp, the crowds would part like the Red Sea had parted for Moses.

  ‘No, he –’

  ‘I saw him do it!’ shouted the older guard, taking a step forward. ‘Are you going to teach him a lesson, or should I?’

  ‘But, he . . .’ The guard, who was no more than a boy, gave Axel a desperate look before turning back to his colleague.

  Axel watched the scene with indifference. He had long ago stopped reacting, stopped feeling. Whatever happened would happen. Those who struggled against their fate were doomed to perish.

  ‘All right then, I’ll –’ The older guard moved towards Axel, raising his rifle.

  ‘No! I’ll do it! That’s my job,’ said the boy, his face pale as he stepped between them. He looked Axel in the eyes, and it almost looked as if he were pleading for forgiveness. Then he raised his hand and slapped Axel.

  ‘Is that supposed to be his punishment?’ Jensen bellowed hoarsely. A group of onlookers had now gathered, and a bunch of guards were laughing as they waited expectantly. Anything that broke the monotony of the prison’s daily routines was welcome.

  ‘Hit him harder!’ yelled Jensen, his face even redder than before.

  The young guard looked again at Axel, who still refused to meet his eyes. Then the guard drew back his fist and punched Axel in the jaw. His head flew back, but he remained on his feet.

  ‘Harder!’ Now more of the guards had joined in, and sweat was gleaming on the boy’s forehead. He no longer tried to look at Axel. His eyes had a glazed look to them as he bent down and picked up his rifle from the ground, raising it high to strike.

  Axel turned away, out of pure reflex, so the blow struck his left ear. It felt as if something broke inside him, and the pain was indescribable. When the next blow fell, he took it in the face. After that he remembered very little. All he felt was pain.

  Chapter 23

  There was no sign on the door to indicate that these premises were occupied by Sweden’s Friends. Just a piece of paper over the letter box stating ‘No soliciting’ and the name ‘Svensson’. Martin and Paula had been given the address by their colleagues in Uddevalla, who kept a close eye on the organization’s activities.

  They hadn’t phoned ahead. Instead, they’d taken a chance that someone would be there during office hours. Martin pressed the doorbell. A shrill tone was heard inside, but at first nothing happened. He was just about to press the bell again when the door opened.

  ‘Yes?’ A man in his thirties gave them an enquiring look and then frowned when he saw their uniforms. The furrow on his face deepened when he saw Paula. For several seconds he looked her up and down in a way that made her want to knee him hard in the groin.

  ‘So. What can I do to help the government today?’ he asked snidely.

  ‘We’d like to have a few words with someone from Sweden’s Friends. Have we come to the right place?’

  ‘Sure. Come in.’ The man, who was blond, tall, and big in that slightly muscle-bound way, backed away to let them in.

  ‘Martin Molin. And this is Paula Morales. We’re from the Tanumshede police.’

  ‘Is that right? A long way to come,’ said the man, leading the way to a small office. ‘My name is Peter Lindgren.’ He sat down behind the desk and pointed to two visitor’s chairs.

  Martin made a note of the name. He was going to check Lindgren against their database as soon as they got back to the station. Something told him that the man sitting in front of them would have a string of arrests to his credit.

  ‘So, what do you want?’ Peter leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of a man named Erik Frankel. Is that name familiar to you?’ Paula forced herself to speak calmly. There was something
about these types of men that gave her the creeps. No doubt Peter Lindgren felt the same way about people like her.

  ‘Should it?’ he replied, looking at Martin instead of Paula.

  ‘Yes, it should,’ said Martin. ‘Your organization has had some . . . contact with him. Threatening contact. But I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?’ Martin said sarcastically.

  Peter Lindgren shook his head. ‘No, that doesn’t ring a bell. Do you have any proof of these . . . threats?’ he asked with a smile.

  Martin felt as if the man were inspecting him inside and out. After a pause he said, ‘At the moment it’s irrelevant what we have or don’t have. We know that your organization threatened Erik Frankel. And we also know that one of your members, Frans Ringholm, knew the victim and warned him about these threats.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take Frans very seriously,’ said Peter, a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘He enjoys great respect within our . . . organization, but he’s getting on in years and, well . . . we live in different times, things have changed, and men like Frans don’t always understand the new rules of the game.’

  ‘But someone like you does?’ said Martin.

  Peter threw out his hands. ‘It’s important to know when to follow the rules and when to break them. What matters is doing what serves our cause in the long run.’

  ‘And your cause in this case is . . . what?’ Paula could hear how hostile she sounded, confirmed by a warning glance from Martin.