The Historians

by Cecilia Ekbäck

  But it occurred to her that her grandfather was disappointed.

  20.

  Jens

  Jens left messages with Professor Lindahl at Uppsala University, but he didn’t hear back from him. He wrote down the table of contents of the thesis from memory, repeated it to himself over and over, but it told him nothing. He was certain there hadn’t been a note stuck into the thesis; after all, he had flipped through it. Thus, the dissertation itself was the message. A message he hadn’t read.

  He leaned his head in his hands. It’s not my problem, he thought. There were the unregistered phone calls the minister had made, there was Kristina potentially meeting with Schnurre, there was the missing archivist . . . There was his normal work!

  But a young woman had been killed. Another one had barely escaped the same fate. How could he possibly leave it alone?

  It seemed likely that the first had been murdered for her involvement with the C-Bureau, but, if so, why had she sent him the thesis? And if there was something in her paper that was related to her death, why send it to him and not to her handler at the Bureau?

  Laura Dahlgren was alive, however. He decided to try to talk to her. He called Wallenberg, who told him that in view of what had happened, she was on leave and could be found at her father’s house in Djursholm. Jens heard something in Wallenberg’s tone. Displeasure? Christian Günther was at an all-day meeting at Parliament. Jens took the tram out to the address in Djursholm.

  The Dahlgren home was a white villa next to the glittering sea. A wide avenue of elm trees led up to the dwelling, which was designed in national romantic style, two floors, wood paneled with a plated roof. The middle section of the house protruded to face the water, with a tower on top. He could just imagine what it would be like to sit in that section; you’d feel right next to the water. No wonder Laura had such an air of entitlement. Looking at the old trees in the garden, now abounding with white flowers, he’d bet anything that they’d be full of apples in summer. He rang the bell.

  It was Laura herself who opened the door. She frowned when she saw him, recognizing him but perhaps not able to place him. Her wide gray eyes were still. Her nose was narrow and ended with a tiny bump. Detached beauty, he concluded again.

  “My name is Jens Regnell,” he said. “I work at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I’m secretary to Christian Günther. We’ve met at the ministry.”

  There was a crease between her eyebrows. “I know.”

  “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”

  She turned and waved him to follow her into the living room. It was just like he’d thought it would be. If he looked out the windows, the water was right there. You had the impression of sitting on a dock. She sat down and nodded to an armchair.

  “This is going to sound strange—” he said.

  “Did they send you?” she said, interrupting. “The Security Services?”

  “No. Nobody knows I’m here . . . In fact, perhaps we’d better keep it that way.”

  Laura said nothing. Her face was stern . . . or suspicious?

  “A couple of days ago, I received a package,” he said. “It contained a thesis.”

  Now, she leaned forward, mouth open. “No.”

  “I threw it away,” he confessed, quickly.

  “Was it Britta’s? Britta Hallberg?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you read it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh God,” she said.

  Irritation rose within him. “It was sent to me cold, without a note,” he said tartly. “I had no idea what it was. I do have other things to do apart from reading students’ dissertations.” He took a breath, forced himself to calm down. “It was only when I was told she had been murdered that I realized . . .”

  “You threw it away,” she said. “I can’t believe it!”

  She was stubborn, he could see it now. The type that never lets things go, never forgives.

  They fell silent.

  “I heard about what happened to you,” he said, after a while, “and that the two of you were close. I thought I’d come and see you . . . ask what’s going on.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was the one who found her . . . body. Wallenberg asked me to see if there were any links to our negotiations, and then there was a bomb in my flat . . . I knew her thesis was missing. The answer must have been in it—don’t you think? Why would she have sent it to you otherwise?” She wrinkled her forehead. “And why would she send it to you, anyway?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I gave a speech at a dinner hosted by her professor, but otherwise, I have no idea.” He hesitated. “She asked about history and about truth . . .”

  “Asked what?”

  He shrugged.

  “Do try to remember,” she said.

  He swallowed down his irritation. “Well, it was as if she was trying to gauge how easy it was to hide the past . . . discover if you could reshape history after the fact.”

  “We used to talk about that. Debate how much of history was written by the decision makers in the way they wanted . . . Were you having an affair with her?”

  “God, no!” Jens threw his hands out. “That was the only time I ever met her.”

  “At the nachspiel,” Laura clarified.

  Jens cleared his throat. He hesitated. But this woman was trusted by Wallenberg himself. She was on the negotiating committee with Germany. She had been vetted. “What I tell you now is confidential,” he said. “Under no circumstances must you tell anyone else.” He waited for her to nod before continuing. “There is a second intelligence agency here in Sweden called the C-Bureau. They have several young women working for them. They call them swallows. Women who get to know people of interest—and report back. They party with them, accompany them, and take note of what they hear and see. Only a handful of people know of the Bureau’s existence. I’m told she was one of them.”

  “A spy?”

  He shrugged. More or less.

  “Britta,” she mumbled. She closed her eyes then opened them again. “Britta would have been brilliant at it. Nobody would have suspected her to be anything but a party girl. But she could hold her liquor and she was smart. And she would have loved doing something for Sweden.

  “Her fellow students said she had stopped going out in Uppsala, but perhaps she had only changed venues . . . Do you think she found something out that got her killed?”

  “I don’t know, but if so, the killer must think you know the same thing.”

  “I haven’t seen her for months. If it had to do with her being a . . . swallow, and she found something out, then this could be linked to Germany after all.”

  “Or the Allies.” He shrugged. “But then, why the thesis?”

  Laura bit her lip. “Do you remember the title of it?”

  He nodded. “Nordic Relations Through the Ages—Denmark, Norway and Sweden on a New Path.”

  “Not Finland?”

  “I guess not.”

  “No Germany?”

  He shook his head again.

  She exhaled and seemed relieved.

  He continued, “The table of contents was as follows:

  Introduction

  Objectives and Demarcations

  History: The Scandinavian Unions

  The Reich

  The 1800s: A New Way

  The 1900s: A New Threat

  Behind the Scenes of the Three Kings’ Meeting in 1914

  Outcome from the Three Kings’ Meeting in 1939”

  “Wait!” She rose to get a piece of paper and a pen from the desk.

  He recited the table of contents again from memory.

  “You remember it all?”

  “Yes.”

  She was looking at him suspiciously.

  “I have a good memory.”

  “Pity you didn’t read the thesis,” she muttered.

  He sighed.

  “She must have sent it to you for a reason. Her murder c
ould have had to do with the bureau you told me about. She’d been in love. She’d changed. She’d stopped going out with friends. I know she was scared. But the fact that she sent you her paper must mean that there was something in there she thought you needed to know.”

  “I thought the same,” he admitted.

  “Do you know what happened at those meetings?”

  “Yes . . . but not if anything happened ‘behind the scenes.’”

  “She starts with the history of the Scandinavian Unions . . . Do you think they were planning a new one?”

  “Not that I know. The meetings were only held to reaffirm the neutrality of the three countries, in case of war.”

  Jens didn’t tell her that the Finland’s President Ryti had approached Günther recently with the idea of a union between Finland and Sweden. Günther had rejected it straight out; Finland had allied itself with Germany. There would be no union.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “The police are investigating . . .” He thought about Sven. The investigation was under his boss. “I’ll tell them about the thesis, of course.”

  She frowned.

  “The police . . .” she said.

  He waited.

  “It’s strange, but the Security Services were here yesterday, asking questions about the bomb. I felt like . . . they wanted to scare me.”

  There was a weakness by her mouth now, a faint vertical line on her cupid’s bow—a scar he hadn’t noticed before. She had just survived a bomb attack. He felt bad about forgetting that.

  “They’re probably just worried,” he said carefully. “It’s an attack on Swedish soil. They are looking after you, making sure you won’t get hurt.” Or killed, he thought.

  She didn’t respond.

  He rose. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

  AS JENS APPROACHED his apartment building that evening, a person stepped out from the shadows. Jens called out and took a step back.

  “Shh. It’s only me.”

  “Sven? You scared me,” Jens said.

  “Sorry.” Sven’s face was in the shadows. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “What’s going on?” Jens took a step closer to his friend.

  “You know what I told you yesterday? About the murder and the explosion?”

  “Of course.”

  Sven shook his head. “I made it sound like a state matter, and it turned out to be something completely different.”

  Jens hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “It was personal. The police have proof that the woman in Uppsala was killed by a jealous ex-lover.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Sven nodded. “They know who he is.”

  “And the bomb?”

  “They think it was put there by the same man. He was apparently obsessed with Miss Hallberg. Perhaps he thought Miss Dahlgren had encouraged her friend to leave him.”

  Laura said Britta had been in love. She said Britta had stopped going out, stopped seeing her friends. That she was scared. Which could be consistent with having an obsessive lover. And Jens could see that Laura would have gotten herself involved if ever a friend was in peril. She would have gotten in the man’s face. But then there was the thesis . . .

  “What about Britta Hallberg being a swallow?”

  Sven shrugged. “I guess these women are ideal for that because they’re good at parties, good at building relationships, but then there’s that risk of their personal lives coming back to haunt them.”

  “Before dying, she sent me her thesis.”

  “Really?” Sven’s teeth gleamed white in the faint light. “And?”

  “I didn’t read it. I threw it out.”

  A door opened farther down the street and they both looked toward the sound.

  “Perhaps she hoped you’d offer her a job.” Sven shrugged. “Only this month, I received two such documents.”

  There had been no letter introducing herself or asking for a job, Jens thought. But perhaps there had been one. He remembered how carelessly the envelope had been taped back together. A botch job, he had thought at the time. It could have fallen out, or the censor could have forgotten to put it back inside.

  “I spoke with the policeman in charge on behalf of Möller,” Sven said. “They are just about to arrest this guy.” His lip curled, showing his distaste. “Apparently he has a history of abuse . . . I’m sorry I made it sound like a security risk.”

  “No worries,” Jens said. “This is good news, though sad for Britta.”

  Sven nodded. “I also took the liberty of looking into the phone calls you mentioned.”

  “You did?”

  “They were top secret. They were calls about the Jews in Norway and Denmark and how to secretly organize their passage to Sweden. That’s why they were removed from the ledgers. Our leaders don’t want Germany to find out.”

  “Oh.” Jens exhaled. He could totally see why. It was one thing to grant passage to Jews who came to your borders or inquire about those with Swedish links. It was totally different to try to extricate Jews from territories occupied by Germany. That might be deemed a declaration of war.

  “So there’s no need to be concerned. Günther is doing the right thing even if he doesn’t tell you about it.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “And I asked around about your archivist.”

  “Really?”

  “I know you. You worry about things and I wanted to make sure . . . He is off sick, Jens. Rumor has it he’s become delusional. Imagining things, thinking he’s being followed, that kind of stuff.”

  Daniel had seemed perfectly lucid to Jens. But then, what do we know about anyone? Perhaps the man’s contacting Jens about the phone calls had been part of it—delusions, paranoia . . .

  A strange thing to discuss in the street, Jens thought. “Do you want to come up?” he asked.

  Sven shook his head. “Some other time.”

  “Thank you, Sven,” Jens said. “The whole thing was beginning to weigh on me.”

  “No worries at all, my friend.” Sven patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s have that dinner soon.”

  21.

  Blackåsen Mountain

  Taneli was at the foot of Blackåsen Mountain. There was a cluster of trees from where you had a view over the mountain and the railway. He tried to see it as it must once have been, tall and proud, forest-clad, lush, singing with life, but now it was nothing but a black lump. It had been important to the others in his tribe, but it hadn’t played any part in his life. The mound was full of men, ants on an anthill. There were a lot of Swedish soldiers marching on the platform. Their gray shapes lined the open pit beneath the mountain, too, and the tunnels where men were working. A train approached. The gigantic black machine puffed and rolled into the station. Onboard, other soldiers, Germans hung out the windows and smoked. Suddenly, a man ran onto the platform. He came from between the station house and the railway hotel. He was screaming: “For Norway!”

  A swift movement through the air. The man threw something. There was a bang. Some smoke. But nothing happened to the train. The German men in the windows laughed as Swedish soldiers wrestled the perpetrator to the ground. They lifted him away by his arms. His head hung low and his feet trailed behind him. The Swedish soldiers couldn’t feel good about protecting the trains. But trains filled with Germans heading west was what the government had agreed to. “A small price to pay,” they’d said, “for peace.”

  The sky above them all was a thin blue, more water than sky.

  Behind Taneli, a branch broke and he was startled. It was a man he didn’t know, thin, wiry, black-haired, with distinctive features. A Sami, that was for certain.

  “So Taneli Turi is visiting us today,” he said and nodded. “Coming here looking for answers.”

  Taneli stiffened. “How do you know my name?”

  “I know a lot of things,” the man said, smiling broadly. His eyes were large.
The whites of them showed. Crazy, Taneli thought. Beside him, Raija responded and growled.

  “Now, now,” the man said. He looked at the dog and Raija immediately fell silent and lay down. She lay flat on the ground, eyes lowered. She normally only listened to Taneli.

  “Who are you?” Taneli demanded.

  “I am Áslat,” he said and leaned in close to Taneli. “Your guide,” he added.

  “I don’t need a guide.”

  “Oh, but I think you do. You need to find someone. I know where to find someone.”

  “How?” he asked. How did he know this?

  “I know things.”

  “But do you know who I need to find?” Taneli asked.

  “Your sister,” he said. “Maybe the others, too.”

  Taneli’s heart thundered in his ears. “Tell me,” he said, and his voice sounded hoarse.

  “It will cost you.”

  At this, Taneli’s heart sank. He should have known this man was a swindler. Nobody could possibly charge money to help another person.

  “Two hundred Swedish crowns,” Áslat said.

  “I don’t think so,” Taneli said.

  He might be a child, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “She chose your name,” the man said.

  Nobody knew this. Nobody apart from Taneli, his sister and his mother. “Don’t tell your father,” his mother had always said. “He wanted a different name for you. Don’t tell him I let your sister choose.”

  Taneli flew at the man, pounded at his chest, tried to get his hands around his neck. “You have her! It’s you!”

  Áslat simply held him at bay. He laughed at first. Black teeth, sour breath. Then he grabbed Taneli by the shoulders and whispered, “Not me, silly boy. But I know who does.”

  Taneli stilled. Áslat let go of him.

  “Where would I possibly get that kind of money?”

  “That’s your problem,” Áslat said. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. Tomorrow night, Taneli. We meet back here tomorrow night.”