She waited for Matti in the lobby. When he arrived, he no longer looked like a sprite but a businessman. He was dressed in a dark suit; his face had grown serious and his old mischievousness had been replaced by sternness. She didn’t know this new Matti. She remembered a whisper in her ear, his hot mouth on her own, teasing. “Always observing. Never taking part.” I’m taking part now, she thought.
“Laura,” he said.
He took her arm and led her away toward the terrace. He didn’t want to be seen with her, she realized. Before, if anything, it had been the other way around. When they were outside, he let go of her and smiled. Some of the old Matti was in that smile.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
She smiled back. It had been.
“I’m here because of Britta.”
He turned serious again.
“I wanted us to get together to talk about it.”
Matti raised his hand. “I was told about it. I thought you might come, but it’s out of the question.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons.”
Because of what happened, she thought. Please forgive us.
“I’m here on behalf of my country,” he continued. “Finland is at war and it’s a critical time for us. I have neither the time nor the mental space to get involved.”
“But . . .”
“If Finland loses, Laura, Russia’s western border will be the Baltic Sea. Think about that.”
“She was your friend. A friend who was tortured and then shot.”
Matti smiled—a smirk. Contempt? “I have many such friends nowadays, Laura. It’s a no.” He squeezed her arm again. “But it was good to see you,” he said, in a gentler voice, nodded and with that, he was gone.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” ERIK said, when she had mentioned the purpose of her errand.
“Seriously?” She might have expected it from the others but not from Erik.
“I will not get dragged into this.”
“But why not? It’s Britta we’re talking about.”
“Laura, Britta is dead. Your flat was bombed. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but the police should be doing this work, not you, or me, or any other layman.”
And no matter what she said, it was to no avail.
LAURA WAS DISAPPOINTED. She had honestly thought she would be able to convince them. She felt bad for Karl-Henrik. She didn’t want to tell him the others had said no. Well, she wasn’t going to let it go.
Last errand of the day: Sven Olov Lindholm. This time, he was speaking on Södermalm in a café. She sat down at a table and had the pleasure of seeing him looking for her as he stood up to speak, his face turning white when his gaze landed on her. She smiled and winked. Still here, she mouthed. For as long as it takes, she thought.
His speech was the same: Communists and Norwegians. Blah-blah. Jews. He made her feel sick. A small man, she thought to herself, trying to seem bigger.
Afterward, on the street, she was accosted by a man, bald and thickset. “Sven Olov wants to see you,” he said. She followed him back in, to a room at the end of the café, and there was Sven Olov, drinking a glass of water.
“I will tell you what I told your friend,” he said, “but then I do not want to see you again.”
He put his glass down with a clink. As if to make the point.
She nodded. That was all she needed.
His face was harsh, pale. “I told her that there are whispers. Rumors. The State Institute for Racial Biology is working on a project, yes, but the organization that supports them in this is much more powerful than a mere political party.”
“Who?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know the project is deemed critical for Sweden’s future.”
“Why did she come to you?”
He shrugged. “Race being the common denominator, I guess.”
“How did she find out about this project?”
“That I don’t know.”
What had come first? Had Britta begun working on the thesis and discovered something through her research? Or had she been told something and then started researching it?
Sven Olov Lindholm leaned forward. “Whoever is behind this will stop at nothing. Look at what they did to your friend. If I were you, I would run as far as I could in the opposite direction.”
“SO WHAT HAVE you been up to today?” her father asked at dinnertime.
They were having steak and a French red wine. The war felt a million miles away from Villa Dahlgren.
“Not much,” she said, curtly.
Her father could have changed Wallenberg’s mind, had he wanted to. He should have stood up for her, she thought. She remembered a conversation she’d had with Britta after the war had begun when it had become clear what Hitler was like. They’d discussed how people would react if a leader like that appeared in Sweden; whether someone—someone strong, well placed and persuasive—would be able to get people to listen and oppose events. “Your father could,” Britta had said. “Right? He’s powerful enough. He could if he decided to.” She’d waited for Laura to nod, as if it was important to her that Laura’s father would intervene in the fate of their nation.
Laura had agreed. Her father could.
It struck her now that her father might be happy about her having lost her job.
“Just looking up a few old friends.”
“Friends of Britta’s or friends of yours?” He put a forkful of meat into his mouth.
She shrugged. “Friends of both of us.”
“Why?”
Her father had stopped eating and was watching her over the frames of his glasses, a frown-wrinkle between his eyebrows.
“I haven’t seen these people for years as I didn’t have the time, but now I do.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” her father said and shook his head. “You need to stay away from Britta’s fate and the past. These things . . .”
“Can drag you down with them?” she filled in, using Professor Lindahl’s words.
“They can,” her father said. “Believe me, Laura. Whatever this was, you’re better off as far away from it as possible. These people obviously don’t shy away from anything. Leave it in the hands of the police.”
“Will you try and find a new job?” her grandfather asked.
“There’s an opportunity at the bank,” her father said. “I think you’d be perfect. The supervisor would be happy to see you any time. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“I just thought I’d take some time off before getting into something new. It’s been hectic these last few years.”
Her father was still watching her. “Don’t push it,” he said. “You were incredibly lucky to survive, make no mistake. Don’t give anyone a reason to change that.”
29.
Jens
Jens Regnell?”
The woman reminded him of someone. She had dark curly hair and thick glasses. Her features were thick, the nose round, the chin protruding. She’d approached him outside the ministry as he headed home. Despite the warm weather, she was dressed in a large and bulky coat.
“Yes?”
“My name is Annika Jonsson. I am . . . was . . . Daniel Jonsson’s sister.” Her eyes blinked behind the glasses. Now he saw the likeness.
“I need to talk to you about his death.”
Reflex: Jens’s head turned to see if anyone was watching.
“Pretend we know each other.” He put his arm under hers and smiled broadly. She stiffened but then let him lead her. “Something to drink?” he asked. She nodded.
He took her to a coffee shop on the bank. It was late afternoon and, apart from one other couple, the café was empty. There was no coffee either, only coffee substitute, the kind made of chicory. You got used to it.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Daniel was so happy to get your note. He told me you worked with him. I thought perhaps you could help.”
“Help
with what?”
“Daniel wouldn’t have killed himself.”
“His state of mind . . .”
“His state of mind was just fine!”
The other couple turned to look at them.
“Sorry,” she whispered, eyes large. “Daniel was scared but not insane. He was a Catholic. He believed taking your own life was a sin. Someone did this to him.”
“Why was he scared?”
“I don’t know. It began when he was made to go on leave. That’s what he said happened: he was forced to take a period of leave.”
“Who? Who forced him?”
“His boss.”
The head of Administration.
“He began saying that he was being followed.” She caught Jens’s look and she shook her head. “No, I actually think he was. Once, through the window, I saw Daniel coming home. There was this other man walking behind him. Daniel stopped a couple of times, to tie a shoelace and to look out over the water, and when he did, this man stopped, too.”
“Did Daniel say anything else?”
“I asked him what was going on and all he said was that he’d discovered something in the archives that he wasn’t supposed to know about and that knowing that information was dangerous.”
Jens thought about the phone calls and the plans for arranging passage to Sweden for Norwegian and Danish Jews.
“Did he talk about Jews?” he asked.
She pushed her glasses up her nose with one finger. Jens winced. Daniel used to do that.
“No. He talked about the legacy of history, and how, depending on who’s in charge, history will be remembered differently. ‘They’ll tailor it, Annika,’ he said, ‘for the supposed good of the nation.’ He got annoyed when I didn’t believe him. History is history, right?”
Jens thought of Britta and her questions at the nachspiel. Bizarre. Daniel’s thoughts echoed hers.
“He didn’t happen to mention the three kings’ meetings, did he?” he asked, thinking about Britta’s thesis. “You know, when the Kings of Denmark, Sweden and Norway met to declare our countries’ neutrality?”
“Actually, he did.” She looked surprised. “How did you know?”
Jens’s heart sank. “A wild guess,” he said, grimly. “Tell me.”
“He didn’t talk about the meeting itself, and not to me, but I overheard him speaking on the phone. He was trying to locate a person who oversaw guest relations at the hotel where the attendees had been staying.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“No . . . I’m not sure I ever heard it.” She lowered her head and when she raised it again, her eyes glistened. “I was staying with him this past week. I felt he needed the company. But yesterday, I had to go home to my own apartment to water my plants and when I came back this morning . . .”
Her shoulders fell and she sobbed. “I think they waited for me to leave. He wouldn’t kill himself for me to find him.”
WHO WOULD HAVE participated in the three kings’ meeting in 1914? Jens thought after he left Annika. Or, rather, who would know what had taken place behind the scenes?
The three kings were alive, but there was no way of asking them. Their advisers, some still in place, would be loyal to their monarchs.
The foreign ministers from all three countries had also taken part, Jens remembered, but they had all changed since then. Even at the 1939 meeting, Günther had not yet been appointed—not that he would ask him. In fact, since 1914, there had been no fewer than fifteen Swedish foreign ministers—each with their own secretary. Each government had been short-lived, one reason why people were arguing that democracy was not viable.
But how did this fit with the phone calls and the attempt to create safe passage to Sweden for the Jews?
He wondered . . . Annika thought Daniel had been killed, but you would hardly kill someone if you were trying to save others. But something was off.
Jens walked back to the ministry. He half jogged up the stairs to the archives. He hadn’t seen Emilia Svensson, Daniel Jonsson’s replacement, since the day of her arrival. The homey atmosphere in the archives had continued. In addition to the potted flowers and the photo frames he’d seen, there was now a large cookie jar and a picture of roses on the wall. She was settling down. There was an aroma of cinnamon. He was glad to see she hadn’t yet left for the day.
“I need help,” he said.
Emilia grabbed a pen. Her mouth seemed to tremble slightly—nervous? Or had she been warned about him, been asked to pass on the requests he might make?
“The three kings’ meetings in 1914 and in 1939. I’d like to see what we have regarding those: who attended, minutes, bulletins, any other details. Can you help me?”
“Of course. Is it urgent?”
He hesitated. “Yes. And I’d like you to keep this request quiet.”
He was putting himself out there now. Hoping she would listen.
“Of course,” she repeated.
“I’ll wait in my office.”
When Jens got back to his office, there was a folded piece of paper on his desk that hadn’t been there when he left. He opened it. There were two names written on it in black marker. Harald Lagerheim and Jim Beckman. In parentheses, after the name Harald Lagerheim, was Ask about Rebecka. He turned it over. There was nothing else. How strange. He didn’t know who these men were. Who would have put the note on his desk? It could have been anyone in the ministry, he thought. They didn’t lock their doors.
HE CALLED KRISTINA to tell her he’d be late.
“How late?” she asked.
She normally didn’t care. “I’m not sure,” he said.
“I just want to see you.”
“I’ll try to be quick,” he promised.
The door opened. The foreign minister. Jens cut his call with Kristina, hung up the phone and half rose, heart in his mouth. It’s about the note, he thought.
“Good,” Günther said. “You’re still here.”
Jens looked behind him. Any minute now, Emilia would come with the box. He winced. What if she said what was in it? What if Günther asked?
“I had some work to finish,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m giving a speech tomorrow at Parliament.”
“Do you want me to read it?”
“No, no, there’s no need. Staffan has already read it. But I need someone in the administrative department to come with me to take notes and they’ve all gone home.”
“No worries. I’ll arrange for one to come with you tomorrow.”
“For ten o’clock.”
“Absolutely.”
Still he didn’t leave, just stayed leaning against the doorframe. Normally, this would be Jens’s dream. Currently, it was his nightmare. Please, he thought. Please, Emilia, take your time. Don’t come now. Whatever you do.
“Is everything alright with you, Jens?”
“Yes.” Jens tried to smile.
“This thing with Daniel not affecting you too badly?”
“No. I mean, it’s terrible. I didn’t know he was ill.”
“Not many did. You’re looking pale. Not getting a cold, are you?”
“Not at all.”
Günther nodded and stood up straight. “Right, then,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
He closed the door behind him, and Jens sank down onto his chair, legs trembling. Jesus, he thought. That was close.
A few minutes later, there was a knock and Emilia Svensson came in with a box containing the papers he’d requested.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll return it myself when I’m done.”
He put the box on the floor so anyone entering wouldn’t see it, still feeling shaky at almost getting caught.
The material was surprisingly slight. There was an agenda: in 1914, the Kings of Sweden, Norway and Denmark had spent a day and a half together. They had met on the Friday before noon and, after lunch, took part in various public engagements. At dinner, their foreign ministers had joined
them. Saturday, the royals had attended a church service and then visited two schools. Meanwhile, the foreign ministers and their aides had been working and had reached unity regarding a communiqué. The announcement from the first meeting established the three countries’ neutrality. The one sent out after the second kings’ meeting repeated that message and ascertained that the three countries were determined to ensure their rights to maintain traditional trade relationships with all states—including the warfaring ones—to provide for their people. In World War I, Sweden had not traded with those deemed “in the wrong,” and the population had suffered from starvation. Sweden had sworn not to repeat that mistake. Thus, during World War II the iron deliveries to Germany had continued. An image of Laura flashed through his mind. This was her domain.
There seemed to have been no real outcome of the meetings apart from the symbolic value. On Saturday night, the royals departed.
At the bottom of the folder lay a note as to the sleeping arrangements: King Christian had stayed at bank director Carl Herslow’s place, King Haakon at the house of Louise Kockum, the widow of a local industrialist, and the Swedish King had stayed at the residency of the county governor.
It seemed unlikely to him that the monarchs would be able to do much behind the scenes. Each would have his entourage; each would be continually in the public eye. They had slept at different locations guarded by soldiers.
But the foreign ministers had all stayed at the Hotel Kramer in Malmö. That gave him an idea.
KRISTINA’S GODFATHER, ARTUR, answered on the second ring.
“Artur Helsing.”
“Hi, Artur. It’s Jens.”
“Hi.” Artur sounded surprised. “Everything alright?”
“Yes, yes. I am calling you with a question . . . for work.”
“Oh!” Artur chuckled. “Well, if I can help your ministry, we’re in trouble.”
“When you were in business, I think you said you used to stay at the Hotel Kramer in Malmö?”
“That’s correct. Who wouldn’t have? It’s a French castle in the middle of a Swedish town.”
“I’m sitting here with the old notes from the three kings’ meeting in 1914. It’s a long time ago, but you wouldn’t happen to remember anyone who worked at the hotel back then, would you?”
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