The Historians

by Cecilia Ekbäck

  “What did he look like, the first one who came?”

  “Gray, unruly hair.” Harald wrinkled his nose. “Glasses . . . Unkempt. He kept pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger, as if they were too big. Corpulent. Filled up my whole kitchen, he did.”

  Daniel Jonsson, Jens thought. Daniel had been here. This man knew something. He could feel it. Taste it in his mouth. He hesitated. “I also want to ask about Rebecka,” he said.

  Harald blanched. He looked as if he might faint. When he spoke again, he sounded choked. “You,” he spat out, “are of the worst, worst kind. There was nothing untoward between me and that young woman. I was cleared of all wrongdoing.”

  Jens realized he’d hit upon the other man’s life secret. With this information, he was now forcing the other man to tell him what he did not want to reveal.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  A red flush had spread over Harald’s cheeks and neck.

  “I didn’t . . .” Jens began.

  “I’ll tell you what I know and then I want you to leave and never come back,” Harald said. “You can tell Artur, too; I never want to see him again. The foreign ministers were working on a matter so secret that we were not allowed to serve them coffee or lunch in the room—they sent their own staff to pick up the food. But I did overhear something. A conversation in the corridor between a minister and his aide. I didn’t try to listen in. I didn’t want to hear what they said, but they were right outside my office. They were talking about setting up an organization for studying eugenics. “It will be the vehicle,” one of them said. “The government needs to approve it,” the other one said. And then the first one responded with something like, “We are the government.” So, I wasn’t surprised when the State Institute for Racial Biology was set up in Sweden a few years later.”

  “The vehicle for what?”

  “I have no idea. And I know nothing more. This was the only thing. Now, I want you to leave. Don’t you ever come back.”

  Jens turned in the doorway. “I’m sorry.”

  The breath had left the other man. His shoulders were hunched. “She was just a very good maid,” he said, faintly. “I wanted to give her a break. People read other things into it. She was easily influenced, went along with them and accused me. One act of kindness and look where it got me.”

  JENS FOUND JIM Becker outside his house in the south of Stockholm. The night was lighter and softer than it had been in months. Summer was coming. The man was looking at a flowering tree in his garden; pondering it, with his hands clasped behind his back. Emilia Svensson had found Jens the address—she was proving quite useful. Jens still felt awful about the conversation with Harald Lagerheim. Whoever had left him the note on his desk knew things about people. Bad things. If he ever got a second note, he would not use whatever information it provided him with. He was not like that. No matter what.

  Jim was in his seventies. His face was wrinkled, and a pair of steel-rimmed square glasses perched on the end of his blunt nose.

  “Yes?” he said when Jens opened the gate to his garden.

  “Jim Becker?”

  “Yes?”

  “Jens Regnell, Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  “Oh.”

  He wasn’t surprised to see him, Jens thought. It was more as if he’d known that, sooner or later, Jens would come. Perhaps he, too, had had a visit from Daniel Jonsson.

  Jens walked over to stand next to him by the tree with its pink flowers. There was a bittersweet scent in the air. It reminded him of crushed almonds. “A beautiful tree,” he said. “Apple?”

  “Cherry,” Jim replied. “I’m thinking I might have to cut off one of the larger branches. The tree is getting old. Carrying all that weight becomes hard.”

  “What a shame.”

  “It’s life. So, what can I do for you, Jens Regnell?”

  Jens hesitated. This man had been part of the Security Services. Jens wouldn’t lie to him.

  “I’m following a trail,” he said. “It’s come to my attention that more might have happened during the three kings’ meetings in 1914 and 1939 than was previously known. I’m trying to find out what.”

  “And how did you get my name?”

  “Someone left a note on my desk.”

  “Anonymously?”

  “Yes.”

  “That should tell you something.”

  Yes . . . but what?

  “Someone wants this known,” Jim said. “I wonder who? You see, most people do not want this known at any price.”

  “You know what happened then. Please tell me.”

  “No. I got involved once and that was a mistake. I won’t make that same mistake again.”

  “It’s important.”

  Jim looked him in the eyes. His eyes were kind and calm. He seemed sad. “Yes,” he nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “A woman has died for this already,” Jens said. “And a man.” As he said it, he knew it was true. This was why Britta and Daniel had died. No ex-lover. No mental problems. This. What Sven had told him had not been true. Whoever had given Sven the information had lied to him.

  “More than two,” Jim said.

  He nodded goodbye and walked to his door. Jens remained standing under the tree and watched the door close.

  HE GOT HOME after midnight. He tried to shut the door quietly.

  “Jens?”

  He exhaled and walked out into the living room. Kristina was sitting on one of the sofas in a morning gown, a magazine in her hand. “You’re still awake?” he asked.

  “I did say I wanted to see you.”

  “I’m sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Sit down,” she said.

  He didn’t feel like relaxing but complied and sat down beside her. She wrapped her arms around him.

  “Günther is working you too hard,” she said. “I’ll have a word with him next time I see him.”

  Jens tried to turn to see her face.

  “I’m only joking,” she said. “You’re very diligent. That’s a good thing.”

  “Yes,” he said and put his feet up on the coffee table, tried to relax. But the restlessness inside was clawing at him, making him twitch. He was so close to answers, he could feel it, and yet so far away. Kristina hugged him tightly. He felt he couldn’t breathe.

  LAURA DAHLGREN WAS waiting in Jens’s office when he arrived the next morning. She was sitting on his desk, swinging her legs. He startled.

  “How did you get in?” he asked.

  Normally, visitors were seated in the waiting room and then they were announced and accompanied to the office of the person they wished to meet.

  “I’m very resourceful,” she said. She stretched her legs out in front of her, then slid off the desk.

  She was wearing a white jumpsuit and her blond hair was ruffled at the back as if she hadn’t had time to comb it properly. Her gray eyes were large and serious.

  “I need your help,” she said.

  “With what?”

  “The same thing we discussed last time we met.”

  She shouldn’t be here. It was getting dangerous.

  “Who knows that you’re here?”

  She shook her head. “No one.”

  Apart then from the guards at the door, the secretaries . . .

  “No one,” she repeated.

  “Our archivist died a few nights ago,” Jens said. “They called it suicide. But he’d been asking questions about the 1914 meeting of the three kings. Something happened there.”

  She took a step closer to him, standing so close that he could see the tiny white scar on her mouth.

  “Before she died, Britta met up with Sven Olov Lindholm, head of the SSS. He told her that the State Institute for Racial Biology was working on a project supported by the highest levels of society. He said that the project was crucial for Sweden’s future, and that rumor had it the people involved would stop at nothing.” She was speaking rapidly, in a low
voice.

  “At that meeting, the foreign ministers were working on something secret. They discussed establishing an organization for studying eugenics,” Jens told her. “‘It will be the vehicle,’ they said.”

  “Vehicle for what?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Laura took a paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “We discussed the chapter titles of Britta’s thesis; it could be about some sort of a union . . .”

  “I just think that if there were a union in the making, I would know,” Jens said.

  “Whatever it was, she must have had a source. Perhaps someone she met as a swallow.”

  “Or something she found during her researches. Who’s ‘we,’ by the way?”

  “Former fellow students of Britta’s.” She noticed his gaze. “You don’t have to worry. They have even more to lose by looking into this than you do.”

  “More to lose than their lives?”

  She fell silent. “I guess you’re right. Ultimately, that’s what’s at stake. These friends are reliable; that’s what I meant.”

  “I was told Britta was killed by an ex-lover,” he said. “And that this ex-lover also planted the bomb in your flat. They think you encouraged Britta to leave him.”

  “If she had a lover, I didn’t know him.”

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation into her murder?” Jens asked.

  “Inspector Ackerman in Uppsala,” Laura said. “We’ll investigate the links the State Institute for Racial Biology has with other organizations and we’ll try to find Andreas. He was a close friend of Britta’s who disappeared after she was killed. Could you see what you could find out about a race project involving ‘the highest levels of society’?”

  “Not just our society then,” he remarked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she mentions Denmark, Norway and Sweden.”

  She paused. “Yes,” she said. “You might be right.” Her face was pale.

  Jens thought about the missing phone calls between the three countries and the foreign minister’s reaction when he’d asked about them. It was impossible. Sven had said it was about the Jews. But then Sven had also said Britta’s murder was personal.

  Laura was still looking at him, frowning. A lock of hair had fallen over one eye and he was gripped with the impulse to brush it to the side.

  “Yes,” he said. “I will see what I can do.”

  “Can you find out who Britta met up with?”

  “I don’t know anyone . . .” Then he thought of Sven’s father. “I can try.”

  “Be careful,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “If you need to reach me, you can either call my home with a bogus question—I’ll ask them to let me know if you call—or you can come to this address.” She stuck a piece of paper in his hand and folded his fingers around it. “A friend of mine lives there. He can get in touch with me. Just make sure you aren’t followed.”

  “What if you need to reach me?”

  She smiled and her face brightened. “I’ll just show up.”

  “You’ll have to sign in,” he said. “You’ll be noticed.”

  “Good luck, Jens. Speak soon. Be careful.” And with that, she was gone.

  Jens waited for a while, and then he walked down to reception.

  “May I look at our guest register?” he asked the secretary, leaning on her desk and smiling his best smile.

  She returned his smile. “Of course.” She pushed the book over to him.

  Laura Dahlgren had not been signed in.

  He went back to his office and called the police station in Uppsala and asked to speak to Inspector Ackerman.

  “Jens Regnell, Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” he said when the other man came to the phone. “I want to inquire if you’ve arrested the person responsible for the murder of Britta Hallberg?”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Jens Regnell. I am the secretary to the minister of foreign affairs.”

  “No, we haven’t,” the policeman said.

  “I was told an arrest was imminent.”

  “Then you know more than me. This investigation has proven a real pain. It’s as if we’re being blocked every step of the way. We still have no idea what this was about.”

  33.

  Blackåsen Mountain

  All day, Taneli felt sick with fear. Any footstep, any snap of a broken branch became that of the mine director arriving at their camp, together with the police. The director had seen him up close. He wouldn’t be hard to find.

  When Sandler had left Taneli standing in his living room, Taneli had considered putting the money back. If he didn’t keep it, perhaps the man would let him off. Though why would he? Surely intent was as bad as the act. Taneli was in his house! And then he thought about Áslat and about his sister. In the end, Taneli had stuffed the bills into his shirt, climbed out the window and run. Now, he agonized. The money was tormenting him and he didn’t know where to put it to keep it safe. If he put it in their kåta, their dwelling, his mother would surely find it and drag him in front of the elders. If he hid it, and someone else found it, they’d claim the bills were a gift from the spirits. In the end, Taneli carried the cash on him, terrified that the notes would fall out if he bent down, or get destroyed if he sweated. He moved like a stick through their camp, unwilling to engage in anything, continuously glancing toward the path leading to town.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Olet, asked, frowning.

  “Nothing,” Taneli mumbled.

  Taneli and Olet were supposed to mend the fence around the reindeer enclosure. The animals were far away, up in the high mountains with some of the men. At this time of year, they’d be calving. The summer camp would be lovely: cool and insect-free. But they were still here, in the heat and with the bugs, because Taneli’s father, along with others, was forced to work in the mine. They couldn’t just leave these men behind and so their group had split in two. The animals would be back here late summer, before winter began; by then the enclosure must be ready.

  “You’re not helping,” Olet complained.

  There was this girl, Sire, and Taneli noticed how Olet ended up by her side whenever there was a chance. If Olet wasn’t so much older than Taneli, and if Taneli wasn’t so worried about other things, he’d tease him.

  Taneli bent down to pick up the hammer. The money chafed against his stomach. He swung at one of the slats and his body broke out in a sweat. He couldn’t keep the bills inside his shirt. It wasn’t going to work. He turned away from Olet, took them out and put them in his hat, which he folded on the ground.

  “You’ll burn your head,” Olet said. “The spring sun is strong.”

  Taneli muttered something about Olet minding his own business. Olet frowned but let it pass.

  They worked the whole morning, replacing the old, rotted slats, reattaching those that had loosened.

  “Lunchtime,” Olet said finally, after a glance at the sky.

  Taneli wiped his forehead. It was getting hot.

  Before he could stop him, Olet bent down to pick up his hat.

  “No!” Taneli said.

  Olet paused mid-movement but not because of Taneli’s order.

  “What is this?” he said and took out the money.

  “It’s mine!” Taneli tried to snatch the notes out of his hand, but Olet pulled away.

  “What is this, Taneli?” he asked, his voice angry now. “Two hundred crowns? Where did you get these?”

  “Olet.” Taneli tried to sound reasonable. “It’s mine. I need it. You can’t take it.”

  He took a step forward, but Olet ducked and lifted the money over his head. He was five years taller than Taneli.

  “You have to tell me.”

  “I stole it from the mine director,” Taneli blurted out and had the brief satisfaction of seeing Olet drop the money on the ground as if he’d burned himself. Taneli bent down and grabbed it.

  “Have you gone mad?
” Olet asked, his cheeks red. He had balled his fists as if ready for a fight. “Do you realize what you’ve done? What do you think they’ll do to Nihkko?”

  To Nihkko?

  “I had to do it,” Taneli said.

  Olet’s face was tight.

  “I had to,” Taneli repeated. “There’s this man. He has information about Javanna, but I need to pay him.”

  Olet stepped away. “Have I taught you nothing then?” he muttered.

  Taneli raised his voice. “He says she’s still alive. He knows where she is. I have to know. I have to try.”

  “Taneli.” He shook his head. “Nobody knows where your sister is. He’s lying to you.”

  “Olet, please,” Taneli pleaded.

  “What are you going to do when they come for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You won’t be able to pay them back if you’ve given the money away.”

  Taneli hung his head.

  “They’ll put you in the stocks. Or in jail.”

  “But what if I find her, Olet? What if?”

  Olet sighed, but his face softened. The knots of muscles around his mouth dissolved.

  “You’re on your own in this,” he said.

  At least that meant he wouldn’t be telling Nihkko.

  WHEN EVENING FELL, Taneli was waiting by the clump of trees where he’d first met Áslat. Blackåsen Mountain was nothing but a mute, dark block. The sky was a mixture of light blue and light pink, with orange clouds and streaks close to the hovering sun. The train platform was full of soldiers. Another German train was probably approaching. Taneli wished Áslat would hurry up.

  A branch snapped.

  Áslat.

  Taneli turned to the sound, relieved.

  But the man coming to meet him on the path wasn’t Áslat. It was the man who had come to measure the boys: the one with the empty, light blue eyes. He was on a horse, and his eyes were fixed on Taneli.

  Hello, he mouthed.

  A trap!

  Taneli turned and began to run. Not toward the platform; the soldiers would take him immediately. Not in the direction of Blackåsen town, as he’d be stopped by the inhabitants. The forest. The only place where he’d be able to hide.

  Olet had been right, he thought.