(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  ‘How did you come to Sweden?’ Craig wanted to know.

  ‘I could not go back to Budapest, nor did I wish to,’ said Daranyi. ‘I was stateless. I had no genuine passport, although I had several faked ones that I had used. I cold-bloodedly selected Sweden as a perfect base of operations. It is near Moscow, near the two worlds of Berlin, and yet with powerful American and English influences. And Sweden itself, in its anxiety to remain neutral is an excellent espionage customer. It was not difficult to obtain an assignment here as a minor foreign correspondent. Once here, I made myself useful to several persons in high places, and they have seen that I am permitted to remain. Stockholm has its faults. It goes to sleep too early. It is not Paris or Rome or Vienna or Istanbul. But there are worse places. My income is limited, but my needs are modest. I have a pleasant routine. I have good friends like Lilly.’

  ‘Tell Mr. Craig about Enbom,’ said Lilly from her coffee.

  ‘Enbom, yes,’ said Daranyi. ‘Lilly is proud of my part. So am I. You see, Mr. Craig, I make no pretences with you. I am no great one like Alfred Redl or Jules Silber or Fräulein Doktor Elsbeth Schragmüller. First, I came too late to my profession. My kind of espionage is now outmoded, as I have said. Second, I am a coward. I am not ashamed to confess it. I am a spy who is scared. With such limitations, I do not receive many important assignments. In some ways, I have been reduced to a researcher. My last assignment, a month ago, was for a Danish industrialist, who desired certain private knowledge of a new Swedish competitor. Before that, I made an investigation for a member of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science—’

  Craig was surprised. ‘A Nobel judge?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ said Daranyi. ‘Dr. Carl Adolf Krantz, an old client of mine. You have probably never heard of him. At any rate, I had better not speak of that.’

  Craig said nothing, although he was curious. He found his pipe and filled it, and remained attentive.

  ‘But occasionally, rarely, but sometimes, an important case comes to me. Such was the one Lilly refers to—the Enbom case, in 1952. You have heard of it?’

  ‘I’m sure I read about it,’ said Craig, trying to remember.

  ‘It was the most important spy trial in our history,’ said Lilly. ‘And Daranyi played a role.’

  ‘Fritiof Enbom was a reporter for a Swedish Communist newspaper in Boden,’ Daranyi said to Craig. ‘That is our vital fortress in Lapp country, near Finland. He was a Swede, and one of those ideological spies I was telling you about. He was an agent for Soviet Russia. He started during the Second World War for Russia. He had secreted a radio transmitter. He came often to Stockholm. When he did, bringing with him reports of our fortifications, he would leave a twisted hairpin in the crevice of a house near the Russian Embassy, and then the Russians would call on him. All went well, until 1951. Then he had a falling out with the Communists, quit his newspaper in Boden, and moved down here to Stockholm. Since Enbom needed a job, he asked help of some of his old Swedish Communist comrades in the government. They refused him. Enbom was extremely put out. One night, complaining to a friend, he told what he had done for the Communists as a spy. The friend, a loyal Swede, went to the Ministry of Defence. Enbom was promptly arrested. So were his brother and mistress—here is where I came into the story, but I cannot yet reveal what I was hired to do or who hired me—and also arrested were four others. Enbom was charged with selling military secrets to Russia for ten thousand kronor. The others were charged the same. Enbom was convicted and given Sweden’s harshest penalty—life in prison at hard labour. Of the others, one was acquitted, and five also sent to prison, although for lighter sentences. But, you see, sometimes my life is not so drab. Perhaps some day you will want to write my story, Mr. Craig?’

  Craig smiled. ‘Perhaps, some day.’

  ‘The real point,’ said Daranyi, ‘is that Stockholm deceives tourists. It is orderly, immaculate, prosperous, so much so that it seems hopelessly dull. But it is not as it looks. Neutralism makes this a free playground for conspiracy. The Enbom case was one that happened to be made public. You take my word, there are a hundred other intrigues, as varied as the smorgåsbord, in this city.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe—like being told the Brontë sisters were really a spy ring,’ said Craig. He looked at Lilly, who was patting her mouth with a napkin. ‘I suppose Lilly is one of your agents?’

  ‘No, she is quite hopeless,’ said Daranyi. ‘She has no talent for the devious.’

  ‘I think,’ said Lilly, ‘my frankness upsets Mr. Craig. I tricked him into joining our nudist society last night.’

  Daranyi shook his head. ‘Not for me. You have more courage than I have, Mr. Craig. Never in a million years would I expose my belly to that pack of health fiends.’

  ‘I don’t remember much about the experience,’ said Craig. ‘I’m afraid I was drunk.’

  Lilly lifted her arms behind her head and stretched. Her breasts expanded outward against the cocoa blouse, but nothing was revealed, and Craig realized that, for the first time, she was wearing a brassière. Craig wondered why.

  ‘Well, whatever it was, the drinking or our nudist meeting, it agreed with you,’ said Lilly to Craig. ‘You were wonderful in bed last night.’

  Craig felt his face redden. ‘So were you, Lilly.’

  Daranyi coughed and spoke. ‘We used to have a Prime Minister in Sweden—Per Albin Hansson—who was a prohibitionist, and his favourite quotation was from Aristotle. It was, “Those who go to bed drunk beget only daughters.” A word to the wise.’

  Lilly waved her hand at Daranyi. ‘Do not be an old father goat. Am I a child? When I was in school in Vadstena, and I was seven, I was taught about the fertilization of the ovum, and by the time I was twelve, I had learned in the classroom about contraceptives. You tell your Aristotle I will beget no daughters.’ She turned. ‘Are you relieved, Mr. Craig?’

  ‘Not if they’d look like you.’

  ‘American men make prettier speeches than Swedish men.’ She glanced at her wristwatch, and suddenly leaped to her feet. ‘We will be late. Hurry, Daranyi.’ She looked at Craig. ‘Are you busy at the hotel?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Then you must come along with us. There is someone I wish you to meet. It will delay you only an hour. After that, Daranyi will drop me off at NK and return you to the hotel. Is that all right?’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Craig.

  Lilly did not bother with the dishes, but hurriedly brought her coat, and the men’s coats, from the cupboard. She was all rush now, as they made their way into the hall, down the elevator, and outside.

  ‘Some of the canals are frozen over from last night,’ said Daranyi, as they walked to his car. ‘But today is not so cold. Gloomy, though. Yes, look at the clouds.’

  ‘Do not waste time,’ said Lilly. ‘You know it is bad if I am late.’

  The car proved to be a black Citroën. Despite its age—it was at least ten years old—it gleamed with care and polish. There was not a nick, not a dent, and the chrome was shining. Craig helped Lilly into the front seat, and, himself, got into the rear, as Daranyi squeezed behind the wheel with an exhalation.

  They started with a forward jerk, and then smoothed out. Daranyi drove stiffly, like all fat men, and correctly, like those on a temporary visa, and he drove not at excessive speeds but steadily.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ Craig once asked.

  ‘Near Vällingby section,’ said Lilly. ‘You will see. No more questions.’

  Craig settled back, and smoked contentedly, as Daranyi related anecdotes of the life of a Hungarian in Sweden, and Lilly was quiet, lost in her own thoughts.

  In a short time, on a wide street of apartment buildings and modern shops, Daranyi slowed the vehicle, and edged into a parking space against the kerb. They left the Citroën and made their way, with Lilly several strides ahead, to a two-storey stone building. Craig could not make out the Swedish lettering above the door, as he dutifully followed the
other two inside.

  They were in a hall, and then in a reception room. The room was neatly furnished with an oak sofa that had a wickerwork back and four chairs featuring cowhide seats and a large centre table holding two rows of Swedish magazines.

  ‘You sit and be comfortable,’ said Lilly. ‘I will be right out.’

  She disappeared through a glazed door. Daranyi sat and picked at a magazine, Craig hunted about.

  ‘What is it?’ inquired Duranyi.

  ‘I’m trying to find an ashtray.’

  ‘They always forget. Mostly women come here, and rarely do they smoke in public.’ He pointed off. ‘There is one, on the window ledge.’

  Craig crossed, mystified by their locale, emptied his pipe of ashes into the ceramic tray, filled the bowl again, lit up, and found a chair.

  ‘Why all the mystery?’ Craig demanded to know.

  ‘Sometimes Lilly likes her fun,’ said Daranyi.

  They waited five minutes, neither speaking, when suddenly the glazed door opened, and Lilly appeared. She was carrying a straw-haired boy in blue jeans, a little over a year old, and she was cooing at him and rubbing his nose with her own, and he was giggling.

  She turned him around in her arms, handling him as she would a puppet, and she bowed him towards Craig.

  ‘Arne, I want you to meet a friend of ours from far away—Mr. Craig.’ She smiled across the room at Craig, who half rose, blinking in stupefaction. ‘Mr. Craig,’ continued Lilly, ‘I want you to meet my son.’

  Then, without waiting for Craig’s reaction, she pointed the boy toward Daranyi and lowered him to the floor. ‘There is Uncle Daranyi. You may kiss him.’

  The little boy waddled, unsteadily, but with secure familiarity, to Daranyi’s outstretched arms. Daranyi engulfed him in a hug, and then worked through his coat pocket and produced a grape lollipop, and handed it to the boy, who took it and kissed him. The little boy turned, saw Craig’s strange and amazed countenance so high above, backed off in fright, and trying to run, fell down. Lilly was on her knees at once. She scooped him up, cuddling him. ‘Did Arne hurt himself?’ she whispered. ‘Mommy loves Arne.’

  Standing with the boy in her arms, Lilly faced Craig. ‘What do you think of him? Does he look like me? He is so smart for fourteen months, but he is shy.’

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ said Craig, and he meant it. ‘I didn’t know you’d ever been married, Lilly.’

  ‘But I have not ever been married,’ Lilly answered cheerfully. ‘I am still an old maid. . . . Excuse us now. Arne and I must meet the guardian. See you later.’

  Craig considered himself sophisticated in many respects, and Stockholm had made him more so, but his amazement had turned to undisguised shock. Dazed, he watched Lilly leave the room with her son.

  He felt Daranyi beside him and looked down. ‘You are startled, yes?’ the Hungarian asked.

  ‘I’m stunned.’

  ‘But not appalled?’

  ‘Nooo. Not appalled.’

  ‘I am pleased with you,’ said Daranyi. ‘Lilly would not want your disapproval. She did not tell you before, because she feared that you would not understand with words. She is a woman who lives by instinct. Her instinct was to let you see her son first. When you saw him with her, you would understand better.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand anything,’ said Craig, ‘but I’m not appalled.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Daranyi. ‘Perhaps I can make you understand. Come with me. There is a restaurant on the corner. Lilly will meet us there soon. We can have coffee, and I can make you understand.’

  They walked outside, and the short distance to the corner, and in the restaurant they took the counter seats at the far end, apart from the other morning customers.

  After Daranyi had ordered coffee for Craig, and coffee and a sweet roll for himself, he spun on his counter stool towards Craig.

  ‘To make you understand,’ he said seriously, ‘I must request a trick of magic. Presto, you are no longer in your Wisconsin or on America’s Main Street or anywhere in your United States. You are in Scandinavia, in a different moral climate, a more unusual and progressive moral climate. Is that something you can do?’

  ‘I can try. She called him her son. You can’t have a son by yourself. Was it an accident?’

  ‘Not at all an accident, Mr. Craig. Arne’s conception and birth were planned.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Mr. Craig, divest yourself of the old shibboleths. One out of every ten children born in Sweden is illegitimate.’

  ‘I’m not a puritan, whatever Lilly says. Far from it. But somehow, you don’t expect this of someone you know—know intimately—or thought you knew.’

  ‘But it always has to be someone. Why not someone you know? People become millionaires, and sometimes it has to be someone you know. People murder and are victims, and sometimes it is someone you know. People divorce, and they commit suicide, and sometimes it is someone you know. Little Arne is the one out of ten in Sweden.’

  ‘How did it happen? You said it was planned.’

  ‘Two years ago, a well-known Swedish architect, rather handsome and impressive, came into Nordiska Kompaniet to buy a dress for his wife’s birthday. Lilly served him. They fell in love with each other. Young women like Lilly do not believe in promiscuity, but they do believe in love, not sublimating it but expressing it and enjoying it. They had an affair. As I said, this architect loved Lilly, but he also loved his wife and three children. Lilly is sensible, you can see. She knew that she could never possess him legally. But if marriage was denied her, she wanted the fruit of marriage. She wanted a child in her lover’s image. So they talked it over, exactly like married couples, and they went ahead. Soon enough, Lilly was pregnant.’

  Craig tried to keep an open mind. Daranyi was making it too reasonable. ‘But the consequences—didn’t she think of that?’ Craig asked.

  ‘There are no consequences in Sweden,’ said Daranyi. The coffee had arrived, and he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup and stirred them. ‘The word bastard is unknown here, and that is as it should be. After all, Mr. Craig, the newborn child has committed no sin.’

  ‘Right,’ said Craig, ‘but still—’

  ‘Sweden does not encourage illegitimacy. Women like Lilly do not prefer it. Marriage is still the ideal. But life goes on, and love happens, and Sweden faces these facts. Because every child’s birth, by either a married or unwed mother, is recorded here, and accepted, Sweden has the highest illegitimacy rate in the world. Sometimes, I wonder. I think that is only because they admit to what other countries hide and make ugly.’

  ‘You mean Arne actually won’t suffer?’

  ‘He won’t suffer at all. When Lilly was ready to give birth, I drove her to a state hospital, and the father, the architect, was already there. After Arne was born, Lilly was put in a room with two married mothers, and treated exactly as they were. The cost of the hospital and doctor was only one krona a day—maybe twenty cents American—a virtue of socialized medicine so detested by your American doctors. The government gave Lilly four hundred kronor as a gift, for her immediate needs. While she was still in the hospital, the appointed guardian appeared. You see, the Swedish welfare state thinks of everything. In 1917, around that time, they established what they call the Svenska Barnavårdsämnnden or Child Welfare Committee, to supervise unwed mothers. This organization has female guardians, trained for two years in sociology, psychology, child care, and it assigns a guardian to each unwed mother. The guardian gives advice, sees that there is money, and so forth. Lilly’s guardian has been visiting her and the boy every month—today they are meeting in the government nursery building, where we were—and soon, the guardian will look in maybe only twice a year, until Arne is eighteen.’

  ‘How does Lilly manage?’

  ‘I was coming to that, Mr. Craig. The Swedes, as I have said, are sensible. Every child must have a father. Very well. If the father does not volunteer his responsibility, as Arne’s
father did, the state finds the father with help of the mother. If he admits paternity, all is well. If he refuses to admit it, he is given a blood test. If the blood test is positive, he is automatically the father.’

  ‘But blood tests aren’t always accurate,’ said Craig.

  ‘No, they are not, but they are better than nothing. There are a few inequities, I am sure, but very few. If the blood test is negative, and the father cannot be found, or if the father is found but too poor to help, the state takes over financial support of the so-called illegitimate youngster. Lilly’s architect, of course, admitted paternity at once. He now gives Lilly ten per cent of his monthly income to take care of Arne.’

  ‘What does the architect’s wife say to this?’

  ‘He has never told her. If she outlives him, one day she will know, for Arne will receive part of the inheritance. More often, the men tell their wives. There are scenes, but I have never heard of a divorce over this.’

  Craig stared at his coffee, but had no interest in it yet. ‘Mr. Daranyi, I don’t want to pry, but—does Lilly still see her son’s father?’

  ‘No. That was over with half a year ago. The decision, you must believe me, was Lilly’s own. She finally fell out of love with him. She saw that he was not really her type. She is happy now that he was not free to marry her, or there would be either an unhappy marriage held together by the child, or there would be a divorce. In case you wonder, she is still pleased to have the little boy. For the time, Arne is her life. She keeps him in the state nursery all the time now. But later, she will let him be there only in the day, while she works, and at night and Sundays she will have him in the apartment.’

  ‘And there is no disgrace whatsoever?’

  ‘Mr. Craig, when Arne was born, Lilly put a birth announcement in the newspapers, and she sent blue cards of happiness to all her friends. She has several friends in similar circumstances. One girl, in the nudist society, and with a good job—she was thirty-four and dying to have a baby, but because of the man shortage she was afraid she would never find a husband. At her job, she discussed this problem with her employer, whom she admired, and he co-operated, and now she has a daughter. Is that not better for a normal woman than living barren and sterile and withered? And is it not better for the child, at least when he comes by accident, to recognize him and make him like everyone else, not to do what is done in other countries, make him sinful or dead by abortion, or make the mother a fallen woman or a suicide or forced into a shotgun marriage? I think so.’