Where Have All the Young Girls Gone

by Leena Lehtolainen

“Mojca, you may bring the soup!”

  A dark-haired woman of about thirty entered. She was wearing normal clothing, a light-blue blouse and jeans, but her hair was held back by a white headband and her clothing was protected by an apron even less wrinkled than the tablecloth. The soup tureen belonged to the same set as the plates, and the ladle was silver. At least they had taught us how to recognize that at the police academy.

  “Burbot soup, a seasonal delicacy. I hope you like it.”

  Mojca disappeared into the kitchen and then returned carrying a bread plate and a butter dish. There were three different types of bread, and they all smelled freshly baked. My mouth began to water as I ladled soup into my bowl. I hadn’t eaten burbot in years. Perhaps I wouldn’t tell Sandelin that her offering had been my father’s most despised food: the Kallio family’s resources had been scant during the winters as they tried to keep their youngest son in high school, and so the family had lived on the burbot Grandfather and Uncle Pena caught. Dad had sworn that burbot would never be seen on his own family’s table, and it hadn’t been.

  We ate a few spoonfuls in silence. The portlier of the two ice fishermen pulled a fish from his hole. The cars moved along the bridge from Helsinki like something out of a silent film. Sandelin offered me the bread, and I chose a slice of black Åland svartbröd. The butter was real.

  “Last night I lay awake thinking about whether I could have prevented this,” Sandelin finally said. “We knew at the Girls Club that Noor’s family hadn’t really adjusted to Finland. But one always hopes for the best, and the family’s two older generations apparently understood, at least to some degree, that they must live according to the laws and customs of the place they are in. I understand that police officers are obligated to maintain confidentiality, and I am not expecting to be told anything more than a reporter for the gossip rags would be, but had they really all agreed that Noor should be killed?”

  “It was Rahim Ezfahani who took the initiative. The others just didn’t turn him in.”

  “Rahim, Rahim . . . Last spring, around the time the middle school graduates were choosing where to continue their studies, Noor came to the Girls Club in tears. I was not at the club at the time, but Heini told me that Noor’s family had forbidden her from going on to high school. If she wished to, she could work, if she could find a job, but mainly she was supposed to be preparing to marry her cousin Rahim. If the security situation allowed, they would have traveled to Iran to be married that summer—last summer, that is. According to the laws of that country, the marriage of a fifteen-year-old would be religiously and legally binding.”

  “So, the marriage had to be prevented.”

  “Exactly. I talked to Noor the next time she came to the Girls Club. Her answer was unequivocal. Under no circumstances would she marry Rahim or anyone else. She wanted to go to high school and after that study to be a doctor, preferably a gynecologist, and then return to her homeland to teach women about birth control and to try to prevent death from childbirth.”

  Sandelin had then taken up Noor’s cause as her own and, by getting the social welfare authorities involved, managed to convince the Ezfahanis that Noor would be removed from their home if they did not allow her to continue her schooling. Sandelin blushed when she told me how she had offered the family a “small monetary gift” for doing so.

  “I said to the younger men of the family that they would do well to take a cue from Noor, to get an education and a profession and learn Finnish thoroughly, which clearly offended them. After that I informed them that I would negotiate matters having to do with Noor with only her parents. That was what Finnish law mandated.”

  Tuomas Soivio and Noor had started dating soon after Noor entered high school, sometime in early October. Sandelin had first heard about the relationship from Tuomas’s grandmother, who had met the dazzlingly beautiful Iranian girl with her grandson in the café on the third floor of the Stockmann department store in Tapiola.

  “Aila was slightly taken aback at first, but then made peace with the fact that this is how the world is now, though the girl’s headscarf did bother her a little. You see, she had been forced to wear a babushka herself as a young woman and vowed never to put a scarf on her head again after she moved out of her parents’ house in the early 1950s. I discovered quickly that the girl she was talking about was Noor. I think associating with people from different cultures should be encouraged, because that’s how we learn to understand each other, but in Noor’s case I sensed that no good would come of it. And now we see what happened. She’s gone.”

  Sandelin raised a napkin to her eyes, and although the gesture looked like she could have learned it in modeling school, it didn’t seem faked. Sandelin’s eye makeup was not waterproof, so some blue eyeliner smeared beneath her eye and caught in the fine wrinkles of her upper cheek.

  “It isn’t polite to cry at the dining table, but I imagine a detective has seen people crying in every sort of situation imaginable. It is just such a tremendous waste of a life! I should have followed my instincts and asked Noor to come live here. But I selfishly wanted to preserve my privacy. Mojca has a separate studio apartment at number sixteen on this same street. I own a few small apartments in the building. I’ve never imagined living under the same roof with someone else, but in Noor’s case it felt like I might have to.”

  One of the fishermen out on the ice had begun moving toward the bridge, and the other was waving at him, apparently trying to stop him. The currents under the bridge made the ice thinner—it was insane to go there.

  “But even if Noor had lived here, would you have been able to guard her all the time? Sometimes nothing stops a man looking for vengeance—not a restraining order, not even prison. When you invited me to lunch, you said you hoped we could discuss how to tell the girls at the club about Noor’s murder having been solved. We could use the opportunity to our advantage by asking them to report any threats they receive. Not long ago, I was working for a domestic violence prevention project. We discovered that simply not leaving a victim alone with her fear helped her to build emotional coping skills and made her feel stronger. Unfortunately, there are always hardcore nutjobs, and as long as they’re walking free, their victims will never be safe.”

  “Is Rahim like that? Will he kill again?”

  “Who knows? His time in prison isn’t going to be a cakewalk, and anger breeds more anger.”

  The fisherman had set out after his companion. I’d left my shoes in the entryway, and I couldn’t see any garden shoes next to the back door that I could put on if the men fell through the ice and I had to rush to the rescue. I felt like opening the door and ordering them in the name of the law to stop risking their lives.

  “Many of my friends are highly educated people with comfortable incomes, and they tend to think of themselves as sophisticates. They trend center right, voting National Coalition or Swedish People’s Party, although one might go with the Greens on a lark. They wouldn’t even consider supporting nationalists like the True Finns. They are precisely the people who think we have plenty of space for new immigrants, particularly those coming here to work, but also for refugees. And they are precisely the people who can give jobs to the newcomers. It doesn’t matter what the nationality is of the man remodeling your home or the woman cleaning your floors, as long as they are honest. But they do not want to be friends with them. The worlds they come from are too different, they say. Our world can come into contact with their world, can influence it, but theirs is not supposed to shake our own. What do you think, Detective? Should we still sing the hymn ‘Den blomstertid nu kommer’ at school graduations? Should everyone have to participate in our Christian public rituals?”

  My phone rang before I could answer Sandelin’s question. It was my father, who should have been at the station getting on the train for Joensuu. Maybe he just wanted to thank me for putting him up for three nights. I apologized to Sandelin, rose from the table, and answered.

  “Hi, it’s Dad. I’m in
a bit of a fix.”

  “Did you make your train?”

  “No! I was trying to move your bookcase so I could get behind it to vacuum, and my blasted back—I think it’s lumbago. I’m now lying here on your floor cursing. At least I was able to get some painkillers out of my jacket.”

  “Christ almighty, Dad! Taneli gets out today at two, so he’ll be home first. I’ll try to get there as fast as I can. Do we need to take you to a doctor?”

  “A doctor isn’t going to be able to help. But if you could bring home an ice wrap . . .”

  “There’s a cooling gel pack in the freezer and a heat wrap in my room. I’ll have to tell Taneli where to find them.” The old men cavorting out on the ice were about my father’s age. Thankfully they’d decided to move closer to shore. I promised my father I’d come home as soon as I could, hopefully by three. In the meantime, and without asking me, Sandelin had served me more soup.

  “Bad news?” she asked. I told her briefly, and Sandelin laughed. “Yes, we don’t always remember that we aren’t young anymore. Sometimes I am nothing but aches and pains if I happen to do a few too many repetitions at the gym. Apparently, one never learns. Try the bread with the seeds. It’s one of Mojca’s Croatian specialties.”

  “Did she come to Finland for work or as a refugee?”

  “Her family moved here during the breakup of Yugoslavia. The others have already returned, but Mojca wanted to stay. She’s a home economics teacher by training, but I pay her a better salary than the state can, partially because I can claim the home services deduction on my tax return. We’ll see how long it takes before our voters have another bout of jealousy over other people’s success and snatch that away too, leaving hundreds unemployed.”

  The burbot soup was undeniably delicious. I ate another bowl and listened with amusement to Sylvia Sandelin’s social views. She seemed to assume that I shared them. Perhaps she saw the police as a force that upheld the order of society, that propped up the position of whoever happened to be in power without question or complaint. According to Sandelin, Finland was only a quasi democracy in which the prevailing assumption of equality was merely an illusion.

  “But the people who were only dealt a hand of twos and threes at birth certainly know how to blame society for everything that happens to them. Would you prefer coffee or tea to follow?”

  I should have left, but I said, “Coffee. Thank you.” The espresso was as strong as in an Italian restaurant, and with it Mojca served dark, obviously handmade, chocolates. Sandelin and I agreed that she would tell the girls at the club why Noor had died, even though everyone would already know.

  “And Tuomas needs to be cautioned about his stupidity. Although I imagine it’s better he received his fifteen minutes of fame this way than by actually hurting someone. Heini was utterly stunned by his stunt. She’d thought he had more sense than that. I told her she should never overestimate men. Luckily, I’ve never had to be dependent upon them. But they do have their good sides, as long as one does not see them too often. Friedrich lives in Hamburg; I’m flying there tomorrow for four days. That much is always fun, but any longer and it becomes routine.” It was good I was sitting down, because Sandelin winked at me. I only barely managed to wink back.

  I sat with Sandelin for another five minutes after I finished my coffee and then thanked her for the meal and left. She tried to convince me to come and speak at the Girls Club, but I declined, appealing to Iida’s certain opposition.

  “She doesn’t want me getting too involved in her world.”

  “But she’s your daughter. You’re the one in charge. My mother was the chairperson of the parents’ committee at my school and handed out the scholarships at every single Christmas and spring fête. I was proud of her because she wasn’t just anyone.”

  I declined again. Sandelin then attempted to prolong my visit by asking after my mother-in-law, so I practically ran into the entryway, where I put on my coat and shoes. Sandelin shook my hand politely in farewell.

  “About singing ‘Den blomstertid nu kommer,’” I said at the door. “For how many Finns is it a hymn about religious conviction, and for how many is it a tradition we repeat because we always have? I don’t think it’s dangerous to anyone. Secular oddities like myself would be perfectly willing to sing other religions’ songs too, if the circumstances demanded.”

  Down on the street, I had to dodge a bicyclist who came screaming around the corner straight at me, his hair flying in the wind. I jumped into the middle of the road and swore, but the boy didn’t even turn to look back. Of course, he didn’t have a helmet on. So many young men believed they were immortal.

  On the bus I switched my phone to silent and opened three frantic text messages from my mother. Then I looked at my e-mail inbox. Antti had sent a silly cat video with an overeager tabby jumping into cardboard boxes. I was much more interested in a message that had come from Uzuri in Afghanistan, written in English.

  Hi Maria,

  You’ve probably heard the bad news. I am sad to report that there was a traitor among us, one of the police cadets. He didn’t have a religious fanatic background, so we didn’t have any reason to suspect he was one of Omar Jussuf’s men—apparently his own son Issa. It wasn’t a suicide attack, and he got away. I’m attaching a list of the dead. We still don’t know when the school will be repaired. Omar Jussuf has said that he will destroy it again, that his forces are everywhere. We are trying to stay brave.

  Yours,

  Uzuri

  P.S. The cadet was very interested in Finland and said that his bride-to-be lives there. I wrote the girl’s name down once in my journal, and it survived the explosion. I still haven’t told this to anyone, but it just occurred to me that the cadet, Issa Omar, whom we knew by the name Mohammed Salim Hasan, might try to come to Finland to hide out with his fiancée if his father isn’t able to guarantee his safety. The girl’s name is Aziza Abdi Hasan, and the man whom we knew as Mohammed claimed that she was his cousin. But maybe the story about a Finnish bride was just as big a lie as everything else he said.

  I read the message three times during the bus ride. Its contents didn’t change. There might be thousands of Aziza Abdi Hasans in the world, but only one had disappeared from Finland. And Lauri Vala had talked about the drug lord Omar Jussuf. Had Omar Jussuf’s son arranged for the roadside bomb that hit our convoy? It would have been easy for him to find out what our route was and when we would be traveling. Did Vala know more than he was telling me? Might he know that our cell was looking for a missing Aziza? There was nothing to be done about it: even though the humiliation was searing, I had to contact Vala.

  Back at the station, Koivu barreled down the hallway toward me with a printout in his hand.

  “Hi, Maria. We found Tommi.”

  “What Tommi?”

  “Tommi Mäki from Siuntio. Sara Amir’s supposed boyfriend. One of Sara’s girlfriends called, and they transferred her to me. Apparently, Tommi was just a one-night fling, and Sara had been mad at this friend for putting the picture of Sara and Tommi on Facebook. Tommi didn’t want to date her. Fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t even be allowed on there! Maybe that picture led to Sara being sent to Bosnia. I could take a little business trip down to Bihać to check it out. I’m sure Anu could manage with the kids for a few days.”

  “I’d recommend taking a business trip across town to see Sara’s parents instead. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled when they hear we’ve found their daughter.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach them, but I haven’t gotten through. We’ll probably just have to go over there. Can you come, or should I take Ville?”

  “Option B. I have something else I need to do. If Sara’s mother won’t talk to you, I’ll go there tomorrow.”

  I stepped into my office and thought for a moment about how best to approach Vala. I came to the conclusion that I should use his own tactics, i.e., intimidation and shouting. Vala answered after the first ring, as if he’d been holding the phone in h
is hand, waiting for me to call.

  “Vala here. What’s up, Kallio? Did you miss me?”

  “Yes. What are you doing tonight?” I would have to go home to see my dad and evaluate his situation, but I could come back to the office later in the evening.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Come to the Espoo police station at eight. I’ll be waiting for you at the door downstairs.”

  “Sounds good,” Vala said in a tone meant to make me understand that I had just promised him some wild sex. Maybe tonight I should dress the same way I had in Afghanistan, headscarf and all. The weather report promised sleet, and that would be a good excuse.

  I googled Aziza Abdi Hasan, but I didn’t get any relevant hits other than the newspaper stories about the missing girls and Noor’s murder. There was plenty of information about Omar Jussuf. I logged in to the police department’s internal system we shared with Europol and INTERPOL. A picture started to coalesce of one of the world’s most unscrupulous drug runners, whose business had tentacles extending from northern Afghanistan deep into Europe. He was fifty-six. He hadn’t forced his way into the booming drug markets of Russia, instead selling his heroin in the former Soviet Republics and Scandinavia. There wasn’t any information about how many wives he had, but he had at least six sons. Daughters weren’t mentioned in the report.

  I should have gotten in touch with the Security Intelligence Service and asked whether they knew if Omar Jussuf had any connections to Finland, but I decided to be selfish and interview Vala first. There were enough coincidences that I doubted I was the only Finnish police officer aware of them, but I was the only one who had narrowly survived a roadside bomb. Our vehicle was supposed to have been at the front of the line, but fate had dictated otherwise. I would never forget that.

  When I got home, my father was lying on the living room rug on his back, and Taneli was reading him a section of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I didn’t know how effective that treatment would be. Iida was making tomato soup in the kitchen, because in her opinion sick people were supposed to eat warm, light food. My mother had already sent me six worried text messages. The living room’s heavy bookcase had been dragged away from the wall, and behind it there was a shameful collection of dust bunnies. But still, my father had gone overboard with tidying up.