Jens daren’t look at Kristina. Schnurre. What on earth . . . ? He managed a smile and shook his hand that a second ago had held ham.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“He’s a good man,” the German said.
I know you like him, Jens thought. The two of them met regularly, whenever Schnurre had a message from his overlords, or Günther wanted one passed back. Though relations had soured, with Sweden now offering free entry to Jews, causing Germany to complain that the Swedes were trying to sabotage the German Jewish actions.
“Let’s sit down,” Kristina said.
Schnurre offered his arm to Barbro Cassel.
Across the table, Jens caught Artur’s gaze. Were you in on this? The older man shook his head, his eyes asking back, Will you make a scene? No. No, of course not.
And Kristina? A diplomat’s daughter, she engaged in diplomacy. Though it was an unfair struggle. They spoke of everything apart from the war: the winter and the spring that seemed to dawdle; the upcoming premier of the play We Have Our Freedom! God, who mentioned that? The German at the table lit Fräulein Cassel’s cigarette. Quickly, they moved on to travels, though nobody moved about much these days for obvious reasons and so they found themselves back at the war again. They discussed food—and ended up with the shortages and the rationing and stopped right before anyone mentioned the German blockade on boats to and from Sweden. They talked about the prime minister and ended up lamenting the weak government, veering dangerously close to repeating the arguments of the failure of democracy. News? Oh, no—change the subject straight away. Luckily, Schnurre was focused on Barbro Cassel and didn’t seem to hear much. Every time their conversation ended up on a topic that could become a problem, Jens would glance at Schnurre and exhale as the German didn’t react. And on every occasion, Barbro would catch Jens’s eye, her face amused as if she were having the most wonderful time.
You had to admire Kristina, Jens thought. Nothing fazed her. Wherever the discussion took them, she would find a way to turn it onto a different subject. Perhaps she made a list of acceptable matters ahead of a dinner. He could see her sitting by her desk, the mahogany one with the leather surface, thinking through implications of various conversations, crossing topics out, adding others, planning transitions.
Jens thought about the dissertation he’d been sent: Nordic Relations Through the Ages—Denmark, Norway and Sweden on a New Path. He was certain the German would have a view on that. After all, they were trying to design that path.
He could feel himself drifting. Artur said something, the others laughed. Kristina’s hand touched his thigh. Stay focused. She leaned forward. In the neck of her blouse, a glimpse of a red lace bra.
Things got better when it was time for coffee and cake. Karl Schnurre, mood lightened by excellent drink and food, entertained them with audacious stories about meetings with Hitler, though they didn’t know if they dared to laugh or not.
Jens wondered about Kristina’s friend, Barbro.
There were two information-gathering units in Sweden: the C-Bureau and the Security Services. Everyone knew about the Security Services, but not about the C-Bureau’s existence—even people who should have. Jens wouldn’t have known about it if it hadn’t been for his close friend, Sven. And Sven knew because his father had been involved in financing the agency before it existed formally—set up by people who felt the government wasn’t doing enough to protect the country. Stockholm was like that. Secrets floated just beneath the surface. Perhaps because the country wasn’t at war and the personal risks seemed minimal, people talked. Most people knew things they weren’t supposed to. Many were involved somehow: activists, spies or double agents.
Was Barbro a member of the C-Bureau? A so-called swallow? The bureau enlisted young women, put them into situations where they could acquire information.
If she wasn’t already, they should recruit her, he thought.
And soon it was time to break up, and everyone began to move more quickly now. Jens wished he could hear what the husbands and wives would make of the dinner once they were out the door and certain they weren’t overheard. Artur pulled Jens to his chest and rolled his eyes. We made it. Jens cleared his throat. There were thank yous and let’s do this agains, and a brief hallway conversation between him and Schnurre:
“Talk to your boss,” Schnurre said. “Tell him to stop asking about Jews. It’s annoying people at the highest level.”
Hitler. He meant Hitler himself. Sweden had finally declared that it would offer assistance to any Jew who reached its borders. Sweden now also actively sought out Jews with any kind of Swedish links and inquired as to their whereabouts.
“The fate of the Jews is important to us,” Jens ventured. “Look at how the Swedes reacted when Norway’s Jews were deported.”
“But why?” Schnurre seemed truly interested.
Now Jens couldn’t help himself. “They’re human. We know what you’re doing to them. The transportations, the concentration camps . . .”
The German was studying him. His cigar hung from his lips. “Sweden should be grateful to Germany for our sacrifice in fighting our common enemy in the East,” he said then, his gaze hard. “You think you Swedes are clean? You should have a look in your own cupboards.”
Schnurre pressed a finger to Jens’s chest and looked him in the eye, as if to impress his words on him, or put a full stop to the conversation. “Nah,” he said and nodded, but it sounded like “I dare you.”
What?
Once the flat was quiet, Jens sighed, exhausted. He walked into the living room. What had Schnurre meant? Kristina was turning off the lamps, so they came to stand in the dark. She came close and kissed him.
“Angry?” She put a finger in his tie, loosened it. He put his hands on her hips, felt them move under the silk against him. She leaned back to look at him.
He was too tired to be angry.
“It’s important to keep them close to us,” she said. “It is not yet certain where things will end up.”
“Now you sound like Günther.”
She shrugged. “He’s right. We don’t yet know.”
Jens didn’t respond.
“Besides, it wasn’t my fault,” she said. “I invited Barbro and she called this afternoon asking if she could bring Karl along.”
Already on a first name basis with him, he thought.
“You should have said no.”
“Barbro is an old friend. And it’s just a dinner,” she said.
That got a rise out of him. “It is never ‘just a dinner,’” he said. “You know what they do to people in their country. You know what they do to people in countries they conquer. It is never ever ‘just a dinner.’”
She didn’t respond straightaway. She kissed him again on his cheek, on his neck. “But they are here,” she whispered in his ear. “Whether we like it or not. They might win this war and we might have to learn to get on with them.”
Jens withdrew. “‘Get on with them,’” he repeated. “Never.”
She put a finger across his lips. “The government needs people like you, but you have to learn to serve the government and not your own feelings.”
“I don’t ever want to have them for dinner again.” He meant the Germans. All Germans, no exception. “Make no mistake, Kristina, if this happens once more, I’ll leave,” he threatened, though they both knew he wouldn’t. There could be ramifications and he was scared. They were all scared. That was the goddamn problem.
Kristina smiled and kissed him on his mouth.
He broke away. “Did the colonel know?”
“What?”
“Did he know Schnurre was coming, or was it a surprise to him?”
“I just had the time to call him ahead of time,” she said. “He alone knew.”
“He wasn’t bothered?”
She shook her head, kissed him again. “He said they had met before.”
“Did you hear what Schnurre said? That we Swedes should have a look in our o
wn cupboards?”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she pushed him gently backward until he sat down on the sofa. Straddling him, her eyes on his, she loosened her tie-back blouse and opened it, her chest shining white in the shadowy living room, the red bra he’d glimpsed during dinner looking like the darkest wine. Impossible to remain angry. Damn the Germans, he thought. Damn the war, too. He ran a finger down her neck and farther. She shivered, arched her back and slid her hips toward him, then back. Making room for him, he thought, and found the thought irresistible.
He circled her waist with his arm, turned her over onto her back on the sofa and pulled a tasseled pillow under her head. He kissed the white skin on her chest and then on her abdomen.
She sighed. Her hips rocked. Up and down. Up. Then her fingers were in his hair, pulling him up, her mouth against his, unzipping him, not waiting any longer. He opened her trousers and she was in his hand, wet, lovely. She jiggled to rid herself of her pants, pushed them off with one foot, then the other, lifted herself up against him, and he was inside.
Impossible to think about anything but this.
This.
Her arms around his back, her tongue in his mouth, the smell of her hair, sliding slowly, faster: thrusting. He could go on forever.
She cried out, tensed, shuddered, and he tried to wait—he could go on forever—but to no avail.
They clung to each other.
“Again,” she said, when their breaths had quietened.
Yes, again.
6.
Blackåsen Mountain
Rolf Sandler hadn’t been in his post for long, but already it was clear to him that he had underestimated the difficulties. Mining director of Blackåsen mine. He loved the sound of it. The position of mining director had looked like the perfect match for him: important for the nation and a huge step up for someone so young and ambitious.
The prime minister himself had called him on his appointment. “You have no idea how important your role is,” he’d said. “The mine is what keeps Sweden out of the war. Ensure the production targets are met no matter what, and by God, ensure it remains in our hands.”
On his arrival, he’d been surprised at how advanced Blackåsen had been. A model village. The workers’ dwellings were shaped like inkwells; wooden apartment houses painted in red, yellow or green, with room for two families downstairs and two bachelors upstairs, looked neat and brightened the town. The large white school was magnificent; the red wooden church with its pointy gables in all directions and its unique square shape. It was a small town, but they had the amenities they needed. Plumbing, space, parks. His own large villa with its bays could match any house in Stockholm.
There were the challenges he had anticipated: the workers were poor, despite the modernity of the town. They looked at him with a mixture of reverence and fear. The Sami workers eyed him with something akin to hatred. The ones he met were forced laborers. He didn’t understand enough about their tribes roaming the forests and this worried him.
Tensions between the population and the Germans were palpable. Each time a train with German soldiers passed through, he increased security. There were Norwegians fleeing through town that he tried to avoid seeing . . . Yes, these challenges he had expected. But some things he hadn’t foreseen.
Winter, for example. Winter had shocked him. The darkness didn’t lift. For six months, they lived in never-ending night. It was like being in a continuous dream. He was always tired, his thinking sluggish. And the cold! He couldn’t have imagined you could live in such extreme cold.
As winter proceeded, and he was getting ready in the morning, he could see how his neat dark beard grew scraggly despite his care; his skin, usually with a warm olive tone, paled; and there were dark, dry shadows supporting his blue but bloodshot eyes. It wasn’t long before he looked much older than his thirty-eight years.
Then it was his relationship with the foreman, Hallberg. After eight months, they still didn’t see eye to eye. They were very different people, of course. One educated, one a former worker himself. One a newcomer, the other one here for four decades. The director had a feeling the foreman still did not see him as his boss. But Sandler needed Hallberg to be on his side. If it didn’t change, he’d have to replace him.
The second thing, and perhaps the most worrying, was that he hadn’t expected there would be areas in this town—on his own mountain—over which he had little control.
Lennart Notholm, owner of the local hotel, the Winter Palace, had come to see him the second day after his arrival.
Director Sandler had taken an immediate dislike to the man. It was his eyes, he thought. With most people, if you looked them in the eye, you felt a connection. With this man, there was nothing. He wore the right clothing but was still unkempt. His tunic was stained and frayed. He was unshaven. There was dirt under his fingernails. All this, despite him being wealthy enough to own a hotel.
“I have just come to ensure that everything will continue as usual,” Notholm had said.
“I have no idea,” Sandler had answered. “What is ‘usual’?”
“We are renting some land from the mining company.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
Notholm reached for the photo frame on Sandler’s desk—a photo of his nephews—lifted it up and looked at it. “Some local businessmen.”
The director could feel himself bristle. “Where? Outside town, or . . . ?”
“No, on the mountain itself.”
That was highly irregular. He didn’t want nonworkers on the mountain. The risks were simply too high.
“Then no. That will have to stop,” Sandler said.
Lennart Notholm put the photo back on his desk and smiled a lopsided grin, his eyes still cold. “I suggest you find out before speaking. Ask your superiors. Director.” His voice was full of scorn.
Sandler had sent him packing.
The thing was, when Sandler had called his superior, the man had said to leave it be. He had known this man for years. He had worked for him in one form or another ever since he first became an engineer. But, this time, when Sandler protested, his boss did not hear him out. Instead, he raised his voice and said, “Leave them alone. This is beyond you. I expect to hear you have given them your fullest cooperation.”
“But it’s not safe,” Sandler had insisted. “We’re setting explosives in the mine every day. They could get hurt. Or worse.”
“This has been studied. You will get nowhere close to them for a while yet.”
“But . . .”
“I will only say this once more. Leave him to it. Leave them to it. Their access has been granted from the highest levels. If you disturb them in any way, you will never work in the industry again.”
And he had hung up.
The director couldn’t believe his ears. This was “beyond him”? “He would never work in the industry again”?
Notholm had smiled when Sandler had told him that all would continue as usual.
“We are working on a secret project,” he’d said. “Nobody can approach. And I mean nobody.”
And so, there were areas on his own mountain where the director could not go, and he did not like it one bit.
OUTSIDE, THE TOWN had fallen silent. Sandler rose from his desk. In a mining town, there was always a racket: explosions from the dynamite, the crash of iron being tipped, the droning of the sorting band, the chewing of the big grinder. Quiet was bad.
He grabbed his jacket and walked out onto the porch. Already, they were coming for him on the road: the foreman and a couple of other men.
“A body,” Hallberg said, grimly.
“An explosion gone wrong?”
“Not quite.”
Sandler waited.
“We found him at the bottom of the mountain.”
“Who is it?”
“Georg Ek.”
A vague image of a man: short, heavy set, dark. Spoke with a southern accent?
“What happened?”
; Hallberg was looking back toward the mountain. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’s been gone since Friday night. His wife reported him missing on Saturday morning.”
The director knew well what Friday evenings looked like for the miners even though nobody would ever admit it to him.
“Why wasn’t I informed he was missing?”
The foreman shrugged. “We thought he might have gotten lost. We’ve been looking for him in the forest.”
“Take me there,” he said.
Dr. Ingemarsson was already there when they arrived. He was standing in the snow, bent over what looked like a rolled-up carpet. His doctor’s bag was closed. It wouldn’t be needed this time. Sandler took big strides through the snow to reach him. As he approached, it became clear the roll was a man.
“What happened to him?”
The doctor stood up and stretched his back. He pointed up the mountain. “I’m guessing that he was up there and fell . . . It looks to me like it might have happened a few days ago. His body is frozen solid.”
He’d gone missing on Friday night.
“What on earth would he be doing up there Friday night?” Sandler asked.
The foreman shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“And the night shift? Nobody saw him?”
“The night shift finished early on Friday. They needed to blow in the mine and decided to wait until daylight. And nobody comes this way any longer.”
Sandler bent over the man on the ground. His head was cracked open. The edges of the wound seemed pushed in, rounded. He felt slightly nauseous. There were the usual scrapes and bruises that he would have expected.
“His neck isn’t twisted,” he said, hesitantly.
“It doesn’t need to be. If you’re unlucky . . .” Doctor Ingermarsson shrugged.
“This wound?” Sandler pointed to the open head.
“I guess that’s what happened: he hit a stone on the way down.”
The foreman wrinkled his forehead. The director sighed and straightened.
Two Sami men approached with a stretcher. They’d been told to take the body away, he assumed. They were not young, and yet their steps were light, their bodies supple. It was as if the snow and the ice on the ground meant nothing to them. The two stopped at a distance. There, they bent their heads. Not out of respect, Sandler thought. More like . . . keeping themselves apart.
The Historians Page 6