‘This summer?’
Kent was interested now, but Gerlof shook his head. ‘When I was young … in the summer of 1930. Aron Fredh and I worked in the churchyard together, digging a grave.’
Kent leaned forward. ‘In that case, you should be able to find him, Gerlof. You know what he looks like.’
‘Not now. I’m too old.’
‘But you have a good memory, in spite of your age … I mean, you remember ships and people and all kinds of things. You could make some money out of this.’
‘Money? Why is Aron Fredh so dangerous?’
But he didn’t get a reply. The gate squeaked behind him; Jonas had emerged from the cottage. The boy approached the car, looking at his uncle the way a dog looks at its master.
‘Time for dinner, JK,’ Kent said.
Jonas nodded and got into the car.
Kent gave Gerlof one last long look. ‘Perhaps we’ll speak again,’ he said. He put the car into gear and drove off.
Gerlof watched him go. It had been an interesting conversation, but of course he realized that, although Kent Kloss had said quite a lot, he had admitted nothing.
Jonas
The Chinese wood oil was dripping from his brush, and the sweat was pouring down Jonas’s face. He swept the brush back and forth across the decking. When he had done four planks, he took a break and drank at least half a litre of water (guaranteed clean bottled water) before resuming his task.
Only a few planks left, then he could go for an evening swim. Uncle Kent’s decking would soon be finished; next week, he would move over to Aunt Veronica’s and do the same thing all over again.
The sight of wood ingrained with dirt and the smell of Chinese oil – that was what this summer meant to Jonas.
As the sun began to sink towards the strip of land on the horizon, he decided to call it a day. He let out a long breath; he would go for a swim, then he was free for the evening. Uncle Kent had announced that he would be holding an inaugural barbecue to celebrate the newly renovated decking, but Jonas didn’t want to be there. He had a feeling that Uncle Kent was somehow keeping an eye on him. He had picked Jonas up in the car from Kristoffer’s earlier on, even though Jonas was perfectly capable of walking home on his own.
He fetched his trunks and went across the coast road, out on to the deserted ridge.
For the first few days after midsummer, he had avoided going down to the shore alone. His fear of the water hadn’t completely gone, but he had no intention of letting it get the better of him.
The blue viper’s bugloss coming through the stones had started to dry out and turn dark purple. The grass was yellow, and the bushes had begun to lose their leaves. Only the cairn looked unchanged, apart from the fact that another rock had fallen down. How many were lying on the grass now – was it ten or eleven? Jonas quickly walked past, without stopping to count them.
He ran down the old stone steps that led to the dip, then on to the shore. It was only about fifty metres but, halfway, he suddenly stopped.
He had heard something down in the dip. From the old quarry, where the stonemasons had left behind a V-shaped wound and broken rocks.
A scraping noise, over to the right. Jonas looked, but all he could see was pink rock and grey gravel. No people.
But the noise came again, several times. It sounded as if someone was hacking rhythmically at the ground, with either a pick or a spade.
No, not at the ground. Underground.
Jonas couldn’t see very far, because there was a large rocky outcrop jutting out in front of him. However, if he stepped down into the bottom of the dip, he would have a better view.
The ground was very uneven here; he was wearing his old trainers, so he had to be careful, occasionally jumping from stone to stone. There was some kind of thorny bush growing through the gravel and clutching at him, but he managed to wriggle past. Now, he could see further.
There was a metal door set in the rock, almost directly below the cairn up on the ridge.
The bunker. Now he remembered. Gerlof had mentioned it, too.
He vaguely recalled from previous summer holidays that the bunker had always been secured with a rusty old padlock – but now the door was open. And that was where the scraping noises were coming from.
Someone was in there.
Not the cairn ghost, he knew that. Gerlof had said there was no ghost.
So he moved a little closer. He had never seen inside, but he and Casper had played outside the door, winding each other up and wondering if there were dead soldiers in there.
The noise continued.
Jonas took one more step. Now he was only a couple of metres from the entrance to the bunker, and he could see the sun shining on a dusty cement floor. But the light reached only a short distance; beyond that point, it was pitch black.
He listened hard. Perhaps Mats and their cousins had opened the door? They had been at home during the day, but he didn’t know where they’d gone after that. They never bothered to tell him what they were doing.
Were they sitting inside the bunker in the darkness, watching him right now? If so, he couldn’t risk looking like a coward. If he turned away, he would do it quickly and resolutely, as if he had something important to do.
Or perhaps he would stay. Walk right up to the door and see what was in there. He took one step, and waited. The noise from inside had stopped.
So he took another step.
There was a wide block of stone in front of the door, like some kind of threshold. Jonas didn’t stand on it but leaned forward so that he could stick his head into the bunker. He held his breath and listened.
The air was very still, with a musty smell. He was looking into a small room, with another narrow doorway at the far end, where the sunlight didn’t reach. The first room contained only one piece of furniture: a rickety wooden table. One of the legs was broken, but someone had used a block of stone to keep it more or less level.
There was something on the table.
Jonas blinked and looked again; it was still there. Small and flat, thinner at one end.
Now he could see what it was: a gun.
Jonas suddenly forgot that he wasn’t supposed to go inside the bunker; he was too curious. Was it a real gun?
He stepped inside, on to the cement floor. He reached out and picked up the gun.
It was very heavy – and old: the wooden butt was covered in scratches. But it was definitely a real gun.
He looked up; he had heard a slight noise, a faint scraping, and he held his breath again. The sound was coming from the inner room, from the darkness. Someone was in there.
The ghost?
Jonas had to get out.
He quickly wrapped the gun in his beach towel and backed out of the bunker.
He decided not to bother going for a swim; he wasn’t hot any more. He made his way back through the dip and up the steps, back on to the ridge, still clutching his treasure from the bunker.
He ran past the cairn, across the road to Villa Kloss and back to his own little chalet. He closed the door and drew the curtains, then sat down on the bed to look at his acquisition.
A real gun.
The Homecomer
The Homecomer was standing in the darkness in the bunker’s inner room. He was still holding the pick, but it was resting on the ground. He had used it to break through the cement wall at the back, where there were the most cracks, and now there was a pile of earth and stones at his feet. However, he still had a few metres to go before he was far enough in, right under the cairn.
There was no treasure there, he was well aware of that. But he kept on going anyway.
As he was just about to raise the pick, he heard a noise behind him.
He stopped and held his breath. He could hear a faint shuffling from the outer room, like cautious footsteps, and he realized he hadn’t closed the door. But it was evening; no one should be down in the dip at this time of day. And since the bunker was hidden from the coast road and th
e houses on the other side, he knew that no one had seen him go inside.
Perhaps it was a mistake to work here while the sun still hovered over the Sound, but it was a question of time and energy. He couldn’t do everything at night.
Now it sounded as if the person in the other room had turned around and was on their way out.
The Homecomer tried to relax; his legs were beginning to stiffen up.
Silence descended, but he didn’t move for several minutes. Finally, he put down the pick and edged towards the door.
The outer room was empty. The metal door was half open.
The sunlight enabled him to see the bare surface of the rickety wooden table – and then he remembered what he had done. He had put the Walther there. He had wanted to keep it free from dust and dirt, so he had left it there while he broke down the wall.
And now the table was empty.
The Homecomer had committed the ultimate sin for any soldier: he had lost his gun.
Fortunately he had another.
The New Country, July 1936
At the beginning of the year, all Party membership books must be renewed with a photograph. Enemies of the state who have somehow acquired a false identity will be unmasked in this way, and will be purged – but Aron calmly settles down in front of the camera in the office. A photograph is nothing but an advantage as far as he is concerned. He has stolen Vladimir Jegerov’s name and life, and with his own Party book Vlad becomes even more credible.
Afterwards, it feels odd to see the photograph once it has been developed; Aron has not looked in a mirror for several years. He sees a hardened young man with a broken nose and a red scar running across his forehead. He doesn’t recognize himself; it is Vlad that he sees.
Vladimir has not only become a member of the Party, he has also been given a domestic passport and a guard’s uniform. This almost makes him a free man; he can move around without restrictions outside the camp, and he has moved into a small room in the military barracks that is actually warm. An old babusjka prepares his food each evening and takes care of his uniform. Trying to keep his boots clean and shiny in the spring mud and the summer dust is a hopeless task, but Vlad has found two pairs and alternates between them.
He has only one rifle, but he never lets it out of his sight, and he cleans it meticulously every night. It must always be in good working order.
After a few months, the spring begins to make its presence felt even in the north of the Soviet Union. Some of the prisoners go crazy and hurl themselves towards the light. Towards the fence. Vlad does not hesitate: he positions himself with his legs wide apart and shoots them.
And he is good at it.
He has shot seven prisoners by the fence since Grisha. All trying to escape. Commandant Polynov has praised him for his vigilance and has even given him a bonus of one hundred roubles.
A wood-fuelled crematorium has been built at the far end of the camp; the bodies are dealt with there.
In the summer, the heat pushes through the forest, and the camp becomes drowsy. The prisoners work more slowly, but there are also fewer escape attempts.
There is a sense of peace in the Soviet Union, in a way. The Kulaks and the class enemies have been broken, and all foreign spies have also been removed. Perhaps the future is here at last.
But at the beginning of July, a new vice-commandant arrives at the camp, a lieutenant. His name is Fajgin, and he has come from somewhere in the south, wearing a new uniform and a spotless cap.
Polynov gathers the guards in his office, but it is Fajgin who speaks, with fire in his eyes. The emblem of the NKVD, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, is on his shirt collar; it shows a sword striking down a serpent.
‘We have important news,’ the lieutenant says. ‘More enemies have been unmasked in the south, both in the towns and in rural locations. More than ever.’ He leans across the desk. ‘This is a huge conspiracy, involving thousands of people.’
‘Kulaks?’ asks the guard next to Vlad.
‘We have got rid of the Kulaks,’ Fajgin replies. ‘These enemies are even more dangerous. They are Trotskyites. Intellectuals. Fanatics.’
‘Is this war?’ someone else asks.
‘Yes. This is war. But not on the streets. These enemies hide, they try to blend in and look like us. Be like us. Then they strike, through sabotage and disturbances. Or murder, which is what they did to Kirov.’
The guards stand in silence. Kirov. They all remember the murder of Sergei Kirov, the leader of the Leningrad Party organization, two years ago. Kirov was both popular and respected, one of the few leaders who could challenge Stalin. Suddenly, he was dead, shot by a madman.
Fajgin rests his clenched fists on the desk and goes on. ‘They have a plan, drawn up by the traitor Trotsky. He is directing them from outside our country; they are ready to die for him.’
Trotsky. So many names for Vlad to keep in his head. Wasn’t Trotsky a friend of Stalin? Evidently not.
Fajgin gives a little smile for the first time, and points to a folder in front of him. ‘And, believe me, they will die. We have lists of those who are on their way here by train, and details of how they will be dealt with … The Trotskyites will have their own building here in the camp.’
There have been punishment blocks with barred windows for a long time in the camp, and this is where many of the new prisoners from the south end up when the trains deliver them. The new block that is built behind them is different. It is called the Sty, even though there are no pigs in the camp. It is a long, low building with thick timber walls, and it is right next door to the crematorium. The innermost room has a sloping floor.
The new arrivals are sorted into two categories, according to Fajgin’s list: the first or second category. The second is the largest group; they are set to work in the brigades.
Those in the first category remain in camp. They are allocated a special platoon of guards, who are issued with new Mausers. Vlad is not selected for this group; he still has his old Winchester and continues to spend the long shifts patrolling the fence.
But he knows what is going to happen inside the Sty.
The work is carried out at night.
A wind-up gramophone begins to play patriotic marching music when a Trotskyite is taken into the innermost room. The music is very loud, virtually drowning out any other sounds.
However, sometimes Vlad is on duty outside the Sty, and he hears the shots echoing through the timber walls. The shots come at regular intervals, every night.
Not everything has been thought through; they should have added another door or some kind of hatch at the back of the Sty. As it is, all the bodies have to be transported to the crematorium through the front door, long after midnight, when the summer night is dark enough.
In the mornings, grey smoke rises from the chimneys.
But there are too many enemies this year; the trains just keep on coming.
The number of Trotskyites swells to a flood. Summer turns to autumn, and the emaciated rag dolls are all over the camp, staggering around.
In September, Vlad and a dozen or so other guards are summoned to Commandant Polynov’s office, where Fajgin is also waiting. Fajgin’s chin is up, but Polynov’s head is drooping. He looks very old; his face is swollen, with dark hollows under his eyes. He finished off his wine collection long ago.
Vlad also notices that the portrait of Jagoda has been removed. Stalin’s picture is still there, but there is another face beside him. A younger man, with an expression as merciless as Jagoda’s.
‘Our commissariat has a new leader,’ Polynov says quietly, nodding towards the portrait. ‘His name is Comrade Ezhov. Jagoda has been arrested … he was caught reading Trotskyite literature.’
The commandant sighs. ‘The putrefaction is spreading. We need more firing squads.’
He picks up a bottle of vodka and takes a long swig. He is very drunk.
‘We will be getting more work,’ he goes on. ‘A lot more work. All
of us. We have to clear it … cleanse it from … from …’
He falls silent, as if he has lost his way. Fajgin takes over.
‘The Sty and the crematorium are no longer adequate when it comes to dealing with Category One prisoners, and we cannot start piling up corpses inside the camp. We have to find a better solution, so we are going to organize a special place for our most dangerous enemies, the Trotskyites. We are going to clear the ground and prepare a gravel pit for them deep in the forest, where no music will be necessary.’
Gerlof
Gerlof was posing in the churchyard, leaning on his stick in front of a clicking camera. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but it had been his decision. It was all in a good cause, he told himself.
The plan was to lure Aron Fredh from wherever he was hiding.
He looked up at the photographer, who was also a reporter. Bengt Nyberg was a veteran on the local paper, which carried stories about most of the things that happened in the north of the island.
‘I noticed you wrote about the gastroenteritis outbreak,’ Gerlof said.
Bengt looked quite pleased. ‘Yes, down at the Ölandic. I think they wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, but it was a bit of a scoop for me. Hundreds of people were affected … The whole of their sewage system was knocked out by the amount of use their toilets were subjected to.’
‘But you didn’t come down with it yourself?’
‘No, I avoided the water. And it seems to have been very localized … They think it was in the pipes in the complex itself, that some kind of parasite got into the system.’
‘Dear me,’ Gerlof said. ‘And right in the middle of the high season.’
‘Yes, it’s bad news for the Kloss family,’ Bengt said. ‘But good for the other campsites.’
They fell silent. Gerlof gazed around the churchyard, at the neatly mown grass and the rows of gravestones around the church. He had been visiting this place for seventy years, and many new graves had appeared. His wife and all of his older relatives had ended up here.
The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) Page 25
