Map
Dedication
For Silvia Hammarberg and Gabriella Wennblom
Мои любимые подружки
Contents
Cover
Map
Title Page
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Preface: The Nordic Countries During World War II
Lapland, January 1943
Stockholm, February 1, 1943
Blackåsen Mountain, March 31, 1943
April 1943
1. Laura
2. Jens
3. Blackåsen Mountain
4. Laura
5. Jens
6. Blackåsen Mountain
7. Laura
8. Jens
9. Blackåsen Mountain
10. Laura
11. Jens
12. Blackåsen Mountain
13. Laura
14. Jens
15. Blackåsen Mountain
16. Laura
17. Jens
18. Blackåsen Mountain
19. Laura
20. Jens
21. Blackåsen Mountain
22. Laura
23. Jens
24. Blackåsen Mountain
25. Laura
26. Jens
27. Blackåsen Mountain
28. Laura
29. Jens
30. Blackåsen Mountain
31. Laura
32. Jens
33. Blackåsen Mountain
34. Laura
35. Jens
36. Blackåsen Mountain
37. Laura
38. Jens
39. Blackåsen Mountain
40. Laura
41. Jens
42. Blackåsen Mountain
43. Laura
44. Jens
45. Blackåsen Mountain
46. Laura
47. Jens.
48. Blackåsen Mountain
49. Laura
50. Jens
51. Blackåsen Mountain
52. Laura
53. Jens
54. Blackåsen Mountain
55. Laura
56. Jens
57. Blackåsen Mountain
58. Laura
59. Jens
60. Blackåsen Mountain
61. Laura
62. Jens
63. Blackåsen Mountain
64. Laura
65. Jens
66. Blackåsen Mountain
67. Laura
68. Jens
Lapland, June 1943
Author’s Note and Historical Background
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Cecilia Ekbäck
Copyright
About the Publisher
Cast of Characters
Ackerman, Oliver, police inspector in Uppsala
Anker, Erik, Danish, history student in Uppsala, 1936–1940; Laura’s friend
Becker, Jim, former Security Services agent
Bolander, Kristina, Jens Regnell’s fiancée
Cassel, Barbro, secretary at the German trade delegation in Stockholm; Kristina’s friend
Dahlgren, Bertil, Laura’s grandfather; former military
Dahlgren, John, Laura’s father; governor of the Swedish Central Bank
Dahlgren, Laura, history student in Uppsala, 1936–1940; works for Jacob Wallenberg on the team negotiating iron access with Germany
Ek, Abraham, Georg’s son; Gunnar’s friend
Ek, Frida, Georg’s wife
Ek, Georg, mining worker, Blackåsen
Enander, Mr., businessman; Jens’s neighbor
Falk, Birger, history professor in Uppsala; Professor Lindahl’s nemesis
Feldt, Magnus, Sven’s father; military
Feldt, Sven, private secretary to the minister of social affairs, Gustav Möller; Jens’s friend
Günther, Christian, minister of foreign affairs, Stockholm
Hallberg, Britta, history student in Uppsala since 1936, originally from Blackåsen; Laura’s friend
Hallberg, Fredrik, foreman of Blackåsen iron mine; Britta’s father
Hallberg, Gunnar, Britta’s twelve-year-old brother
Hansson, Per Albin, Sweden’s prime minister
Helsing, Artur, Kristina’s godfather; retired businessman
Ingemarsson, Pierre, doctor, Blackåsen
Jonsson, Annika, Daniel Jonsson’s sister
Jonsson, Daniel, archivist, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Stockholm
Karppinen, Matti, Finnish, history student in Uppsala, 1936–1940; currently works for Finnish Ministry of Information; Laura’s friend
Lagerheim, Harald, formerly in charge of guest relations, The Hotel Kramer, Malmö
Professor Lindahl, history professor at Uppsala University; government advisor
Lindholm, Sven Olov, leader of a Swedish Nazi Party, the SSS (Svensk socialistisk samling)
Lundius Lappo, Andreas, Sami, theology student in Uppsala, originally from Blackåsen; childhood friend of Britta Hallberg
Möller, Gustav, minister of social affairs
Nihkko, Sami elder
Notholm, Lennart, owner of the local hotel, the Winter Palace, Blackåsen
Öhrnberg, Ove, doctor and scientist, Blackåsen
Olet, Taneli’s cousin
Persson, Emil, journalist at Svenska Dagbladet; anti-Nazi
Regnell, Jens, personal secretary to the minister of foreign affairs, Stockholm
Rogstad, Karl-Henrik, Norwegian, history student in Uppsala, 1936–1940, then resistance fighter in Norway; Laura’s friend
Sandler, Rolf, mining director of Blackåsen iron mine
Schnurre, Karl, German envoy; Hitler’s messenger to Sweden
Svensson, Emilia, archivist, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Stockholm
Ternberg, Helmuth, Major, deputy head of the C-Bureau
Turi, Javanna, Sami, living close to Blackåsen, thirteen years old
Turi, Taneli, Sami, Javanna’s brother, nine years old
Wallenberg, Jacob, renowned Swedish businessman and chief negotiator with Germany
Preface
The Nordic Countries During World War II
Sweden was the only Nordic country that remained neutral during World War II. The country, however, accommodated the Nazi regime:
German soldiers were allowed passage through Sweden. Over two million German soldiers traveled back and forth to Norway by Swedish rail in 1940–1943.
Swedish iron was critical for wartime production of steel and was sold to Germany at the same level preceding the war, which the Allies argued prolonged the war. The Swedish iron was called “Hitler’s Achilles’ heel.”
Swedish railways allowed the transport of the German 163rd Infantry Division, together with howitzers, tanks, weapons and ammunition, from Norway to Finland.
After 1944, Sweden shared military intelligence, helped train soldiers from Denmark and Norway and allowed the Allies to use Swedish airbases.
Norway was occupied by Germany on April 9, 1940. King Haakon VII fled to Great Britain and exiled Norwegian forces continued to fight from abroad. Norway withstood a German land invasion for sixty-two days—making it the nation that held out the longest, after the Soviet Union.
Denmark was occupied by Germany the same day the occupation of Norway began, without fighting. Until April 1943, King Christian X and the government functioned as in a protectorate. An effective resistance movement developed toward the end of the war and Germany then placed Denmark under direct military occupation.
The occupations of Norway and Denmark were largely motivated by the German aim to control the mining districts in the north of Sweden. After the invasions of Norway and Denmark, Sweden found
itself isolated and completely dependent on Germany for its imports.
Finland participated in World War II, twice fighting the Soviet Union, and then Nazi Germany. As relations with the Soviet Union changed, so did Finland’s position in relation to the Allied forces—at one time for them, then against, then finally for them again.
Thus, the four Nordic countries, which, since the thirteenth century had been in various unions with one another, found themselves in very different situations and, occasionally, even on different sides during the course of the war.
Lapland, January 1943
Javanna Turi’s heart thumps dark and slow in her chest; her body is taut. She has been frightened before: seeing bare ground beneath the supplies in the food pit, or hearing gray-legs howl. There is a lot in Javanna’s life to be scared of. Best not to think too much.
But this . . . This is different. The thought slithers through her mind that this kind of fear she ought to think about.
Javanna, Janna, Jannanita, Javanna Turi, hurry home to me—her mother’s singsong voice echoes inside her mind.
Javanna Turi: Sami, thirteen years old, skiing in a forest she knows as well as her own sweet self, setting the traps she has set since she was seven.
Afraid.
She could leave it. She has already set four. But she has seen the tracks of a hare on the hill by the frozen river and she’s planned to set a spring pole trap. Back in the camp, she cut the snare, carved the sticks, brought the bait. Her mouth waters at the thought of meat.
The evening is cloudy, but for a moment a cold moon shows her face. The white on the hill glows. It beckons her to come, come closer. She sets off toward the knoll, skis hissing on parched snow.
Javanna, Janna, Jannanita, Javanna Turi, hurry home to me.
She reminds herself that she has no reason to be afraid. This is her land. But only one moon ago, Ámmon didn’t come home. Ámmon was old. Older than the roots of the trees. His time ended. Only cold freezes your body to white stone; where wild animals have eaten, there will be scraps. Ámmon was gone as if seized by a giant hand and torn off the surface of the earth. And ever since, Javanna feels it. Something has joined them here. Something foul.
Stallo, the grown-ups whisper at night. Stallo, the giant who eats human meat. But in the tales, Stallo is clumsy. This presence feels sharp. It watches them. Waits for that one mistake.
The moon hides again, but Javanna has reached the hill. By the cluster of young trees, she puts her rucksack down on the snow and takes a while to find a pole with good spring. When she’s happy, she takes out her knife and trims the branch of its leaves before tying her snare line to its end.
Was that a sound? She tries to see in the dark.
No. No, all is still. So still as only a winter forest can be in the dark. Quickly now, she scolds herself, before your fingers freeze. The tip of her tongue is out. She feels her work rather than sees it in the darkness.
From her rucksack, she takes out the forked stake. She drives it into the snow, ties the end of the trigger line to the pin she has carved and runs the line under the fork. Her fingers dig.
Last thing to do is to bait her trigger stick and for that she needs fat.
Done. She puts her hands to her mouth, blows hot breath into them—squeezes them to get some feeling back and puts on her mittens. The knife goes into its case, the rucksack onto her back. She hits her thighs with her fists a few times to get the blood flowing.
Then, beneath the big spruce tree below the hill . . . a movement. Fleeting, but she is certain; the darkness changed. It shifted. Swayed. Bulged out in her direction then pulled back.
“Hello?”
She waits.
There is no answer. But Javanna’s chest feels so tight she can’t breathe. She is certain. There is something there.
Stockholm, February 1, 1943
They’d decided to meet at the café in the NK department store. In the elevator, Britta stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself: her lips were cracked, the dark rings under her eyes a faint metallic blue. And the smell. Even though she showered and showered, she still smelled of sweat. The kind you cannot wash away. The reek of fear.
She entered the empty café, looked around, and took a seat on one of the green leather sofas by the atrium.
A man and a woman walked past her. The man fell back and let the woman go before him, his hand still at the curve of her back, as he glanced at Britta. Normally she would have responded: caught his gaze and winked. Normally.
At the entrance: a tall, blond woman in a light coat, eyes searching.
Relief flooded her. She dropped her lighter on the table and rose. Then her friend was in her arms and Britta’s eyes welled up and she felt she’d never let go. Laura.
“Hi,” Laura said softly. She took a step back to look at Britta, hands on her shoulders, eyes narrowing.
“Look at me,” Britta said and wiped her eyes. “I’m getting emotional!” Her face twisted.
Laura squeezed her shoulders.
They sat down. Laura took off her coat and folded it on the sofa beside her. Her face was serious. Her large gray eyes steady, unwavering.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said. Not missing anything.
“I’m smoking too much,” Britta said. “Even more than when you knew me.”
“I still know you.”
Britta tried to smile. “Of course you do.”
Britta picked up the lighter, turned it in her hand. She didn’t know how to approach the matter for which she had come. She loved this woman more than anything. How could she put her, too, in danger? How could she tell her what she had learned? She rubbed her forehead with her knuckle and narrowed her eyes to stop herself from crying again.
“How’s work?” she asked, stalling.
“Brilliant.” Laura sighed and lit a cigarette and signaled the waiter for coffee or its substitute.
Laura was a part of the Swedish trade delegation negotiating iron access with Germany. A dreadful war was ravaging Europe and—in some ways—Laura was having the time of her life. And Britta was the one person she didn’t need to lie to. They’d never lied to each other. Never held back. Before.
“You’re made for it, of course,” Britta said.
“Ten years this weekend since the Nazis came to power,” Laura said. “And things are just getting worse.”
Sweden was on a knife’s edge: there was a potential Allied invasion of Norway that would create a second front in Sweden; there were rumors of the German forces in Norway massing for an invasion of Sweden regardless; and then the Soviet Union advancing in the east . . . Yes, the war was closing in on them.
“Have you heard from the others?” Laura asked.
Britta narrowed her eyes. Tell her, she thought, but couldn’t.
“No,” she said, shortly.
Laura nodded. She paused as the waiter put down two steaming cups. Then she leaned forward and put her hand on Britta’s arm. “How are things really?”
This was the moment. Say it, Britta told herself. Tell her! Instead she heard herself laugh as she leaned back against the sofa.
“Same as usual,” she said. “You know me; still causing trouble left and right.”
And Laura didn’t insist. They sat for a while longer, sipping quietly, but now Britta wanted her friend to leave. Fear was eating away at her. She couldn’t bring Laura into this.
It was time. As Laura put one arm in her coat, Britta grabbed the other.
“You know I love you, right?” she said. Had to say it, one more time.
“Yes,” Laura said and searched her eyes.
Britta let go of her arm, gave a flicker of a smile. “I’m going to finish my drink. You go ahead.”
And so they parted, life taking them in different directions. The last thing Britta saw of her friend was that blond hair turning the corner by the counter.
Blackåsen Mountain, March 31, 1943
He hiccupped. He’d drunk too mu
ch. In fact, he was as drunk as a lord. But could you blame him? All day in the dark; the trolleys that had to be lifted onto the tracks; the drilling steel that jammed; the instability of the tunnel roofs; the fear of black lung from the dust . . .
No, after a week mining in hell, a man deserved to drink himself legless.
He hiccupped again and thought of Frida and their six little ones. They’d be fast asleep now. He’d been on his way home when he’d had the impulse to make a detour up to the mine.
When Georg looked back toward the town, it was pitch black. He’d snuck past the Swedish soldiers guarding the rail tracks at the base of the mountain. Tiptoed like a ballerina. A drunk one. He chuckled. Not that it had been hard. Come Friday night, they, too, were sloshed.
He slid. Hands flailing, he tried to grab onto the mountainside, but there was nothing to grip and he went straight down onto one knee. Jesus Christ. Gingerly, he rose and pushed his knee out a few times. It was fine. Perhaps he should turn around.
He burped and it echoed. Sounded like a toad. A mountain toad! This made him laugh again.
No. He just had to be careful he didn’t fall off the path. You’d freeze to death before someone found you.
God, how he hated this mountain; hated it even more at night. Not that he was superstitious, but you couldn’t avoid hearing the stories: sorcerers and witches; curses . . . But Blackåsen had jobs and a man needed to work.
The town was booming thanks to the war. And this, in a sense, was why he was now climbing the mountainside in the middle of the night.
Manfred’s fault. “Shame on us!” Manfred had wailed like he did every Friday. “Our fellow brothers are under their rule, and here we are, a bunch of cowards, working for them.”
They’d patted him on the back, hmmed, tried to get him to shut the fuck up.
Politics were politics, and there was not much an ordinary man could do. The Germans traveled through Blackåsen and it was dangerous to show your feelings. Who knew how things would end?
Only Georg had seen something. Something that might prove Manfred wrong. They weren’t all cowards. There was a new mining shaft on the west side of the mountain. They weren’t allowed to go that way, for “security reasons.” The former director had had signs put up, and a chain, but necessity knows no law. Georg had sneaked off and that’s when he’d seen it. A man had been going into the shaft. And Georg had figured it out. Everyone knew the Norwegian resistance had bases here and Swedes were helping them. Now Georg was only going to have a peek. He was certain he’d find a place where they gathered. Perhaps he could help them, too.
The Historians Page 1