The Historians

by Cecilia Ekbäck

  “Aha,” he said. “Well, I called you regarding our friend.”

  Keeping it vague, Jens thought. “I thought that might have been it.”

  “I thought you would like to come with me to meet someone.”

  The fat man in the oil painting on Jens’s office wall was staring at him, as always. Sneering.

  “I’d love to,” Jens said.

  “Valhallavägen 132. I’ll meet you outside in half an hour?”

  The stomach swelled underneath the painted man’s gold chain. Not enough. Not enough.

  They finished the call. Jens took two steps and lifted the painting down, turning it to face the wall.

  Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Christian Günther.

  “So you’re back,” he said, looking at the painting on the floor. “Flu all gone?”

  “All gone,” Jens said.

  His face had mostly healed, but he still had dark shadows under his eyes. Günther moved closer to study him now, as if he were looking for that very same thing.

  “Very good. Schnurre was asking for you when I met with him yesterday.”

  Jens felt cold. “Asking for me? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Günther said. “He said he had something for you. Do you know what that might be?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Jens said.

  “Well, I suggest you look him up. These Germans, when they don’t get what they want . . . And then I want to know what it was all about.”

  Jens thought of Barbro. And of Britta, who was now dead.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Jens . . .” Günther started.

  “Yes?”

  Günther looked away. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  JENS WALKED THROUGH the small busy streets of Norrmalm, past the beautiful Östermalm Market Hall with its towers and glass ceiling. Past Humlegården Park and the Royal Library. Beautiful, glorious, and yet he would never look upon anything the same way again.

  When he reached the gray, insignificant building on Valhallavägen, Magnus Feldt was already waiting for him outside.

  “Come,” he said and pushed open the door.

  The office was in a normal flat, with two secretaries in the hallway. Magnus Feldt bypassed them with a nod and walked into a room that proved to be an office.

  “Jens,” he said, “this is Major Ternberg of the C-Bureau.”

  Major Ternberg was a middle-aged man; his hair was short, his eyes deeply set. His face was expressionless. He shook Jens’s hand.

  “Major Ternberg is managing the undercover operations concerning Germany,” Magnus said.

  Ternberg frowned. Magnus had said too much.

  “Well, I’ll wait in the hallway,” Magnus said.

  “I’m only meeting you because of Magnus,” Ternberg said. “I assume I don’t have to tell you that this meeting never happened. We don’t exist.”

  Jens nodded. “You don’t exist,” he repeated.

  “So you want to know about Miss Hallberg.”

  Jens nodded again.

  “Britta was an unusual recruit. We prefer them to be employed: secretaries, translators . . . They tend to be more effective. She was also the first one we took on with a higher education.”

  Jens cringed. He could see it: naive young women, drawn in by some promise, spying on men older and shrewder than themselves, then unable to get out. And this man was not going to help them.

  “But then there’s Karl Schnurre,” Major Ternberg said. “And he supports no fools.”

  Schnurre. Again.

  “Britta was recruited with the one task of getting close to Karl Schnurre.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Ah, yes. It did. We had her sit next to him at a dinner. That’s all we had to do. Herr Schnurre liked her very much. He enjoyed sparring with her.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then nothing,” Ternberg said. “Britta died. We lost our source.” He shrugged.

  Jens felt his lips compress. Her death meant nothing to this man. “Do you think he killed her?” Jens asked.

  “We know for a fact he didn’t. He wasn’t in Sweden the day when it happened.”

  “He could have hired someone.”

  Ternberg shrugged. “Naturally. But we won’t look into that. We’re trying to find someone else for him, someone equally effective. That will be more valuable to us than trying to frame him for some woman’s death.”

  Jens was lost for words.

  “I can see what you’re thinking,” Ternberg continued. “And yet, without us, Sweden would not have access to what the Great Powers are thinking and planning. And at the end of the day, at this stage of the war, for a small country like ours, knowledge is everything. Stop asking questions about Miss Hallberg. In the large scheme of things, her death is a very small matter.”

  Jens thought of Kristina, but he wouldn’t ask about her. He wouldn’t want to land anyone in this man’s grip.

  “I am not a spy,” Barbro had said. “I won’t be accused of being one. Could you imagine what would happen to me if Schnurre heard that? I’d be dead within the day.”

  Britta had been friendly with Schnurre. Now she was dead. They knew why she was dead, but it was still a hell of a coincidence.

  57.

  Blackåsen Mountain

  The boy was pacing the living room, wringing his hands.

  “He’ll be alright,” the foreman said, though he had no idea.

  “He has to be. He must!”

  The doctor didn’t come down. This was going to take some time, Hallberg thought.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” Hallberg asked. “Why aren’t you with your people?”

  “It’s a long story,” the boy said.

  “We have time.”

  “I’m not sure I should tell you,” the boy said. “What if you’re one of them?”

  It’s the funniest thing, the foreman thought. This Sami boy, here in the director’s house, so small and so dramatic! Then he thought of “them” and felt himself harden.

  “Well,” he sat down. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  The boy bit his lip. The foreman could see his doubts. He tried to make his face gentler, more relaxed. You can tell me.

  “Do you know Mr. Notholm?” the boy asked.

  “Hate his guts,” the foreman said.

  This answer seemed to please the boy. “Me too,” he said. “My sister disappeared in winter, but it began before that.”

  WHEN THE BOY had finished talking, Hallberg felt sick to his stomach. His daughter . . . This was why she’d died? He’d always assumed it had to do with a partner of some sort. “We don’t always know what is truly in somebody else’s heart,” the director had said. Perhaps he was right.

  He’d adored his only daughter when she was little. He couldn’t wait to get back from the mine to see her toddling toward him on those fat white legs, the grin on her face when he lifted her up and how she buried her face in his neck. He had loved her so much it hurt.

  Then she became a ten-year-old know-it-all; a sassy teenager—still a know-it-all. When she looked at him, her father, her siblings, her surroundings, it was on her face, as clear as if she’d said it out loud: she was better than this; better than them. She resented them.

  She had been altogether different to them, almost like a changeling. Bright, for sure, but too selfish to use that intelligence for anything good.

  But this . . . She had pursued an injustice, and that’s what had gotten her killed.

  Contrary to what most people assumed, the foreman had a lot of respect for the Sami. He was horrified by what the boy had just told him.

  And it appeared his daughter had reacted just like him. His heart swelled. If he’d been on his own, he would have put his face in his hands and cried. For her, for himself, for the loss.

  He cleared his throat.

  The boy was still looking at him, his face worried.

 
; “Here’s what I want you to do . . .” the foreman said.

  58.

  Laura

  She wanted to come home, nurse her wounds, sleep a little, but her chest tightened with anxiety as she approached their house. The villa that normally lay in full splendour in the lush landscape, by the glittering sea, seemed unusually quiet. Though it was still day, the blackout curtains were drawn.

  She opened the door. Instead of calling out “I’m home!” as she usually did, she paused inside the entrance and listened.

  Nobody’s home, she thought and exhaled.

  She began walking down the corridor. She peeked into the kitchen and there he was: her father.

  “Well, look who’s here,” he said.

  She waited.

  “I think that you’re still not listening to me,” he said.

  She hung her head . . . thought about Karl-Henrik lying on the floor in his own blood.

  Her father frowned. “Have I ever given you bad advice?”

  “No.” Never.

  “Then why won’t you listen to me on this?”

  “Because it’s about people,” she said. “This is real. Another friend of mine died this morning.”

  “Then stop! For God’s sake, Laura. Stop!”

  “How could I? How can you know and not help?”

  “You’ll harm your country in ways you cannot begin to imagine. I have never asked you for anything, but I am asking you this: let it be.”

  She shook her head.

  “Laura.” Her father inhaled deeply. He seemed to be trying to calm down. “You owe me this. All I’ve done for you? Who got you into university?”

  She hesitated. “I got in on my grades . . .”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “You think that was enough? A ‘donation’ to the university, that’s what it took. Who made sure Professor Lindahl involved you in his little group? And the job with Wallenberg—who got you that?”

  She was staggered. Had it all been her father? Had she achieved nothing on her own?

  “You’ve sailed through life on my bank account, on my reputation, on my name. By yourself, you’re nothing. And now I’m asking you, you stupid girl, for just one thing: leave this alone. Before it’s too late and real harm is done.”

  “Merciless,” her grandfather had called him.

  “Is this what you did to my mother?” she asked, in a quiet voice.

  He exhaled, a hard puff of air.

  “This is how you drove her away when she wouldn’t comply with your wishes? Pushing, threatening, belittling . . .”

  “You are just like her,” he said.

  She clenched her fists by her sides.

  “What did you do to make her leave?” she asked.

  Her father rose from his chair. “I didn’t make her leave!” he yelled. “One morning she was just gone. She didn’t think to take you with her, did she? I raised you instead. I gave you everything. I made it all happen for you . . . But I didn’t raise you to this . . .”

  “To what?” She was yelling, too.

  “To disgust me!”

  And that was it: nothing more needed to be said. Laura walked backward out of the kitchen, shaking her head.

  59.

  Jens

  Jens was walking back to his apartment in Old Town, but as he reached the water, he stopped. He had to know what Schnurre had for him. The German trade delegation was housed not far from the foreign ministry. Walking distance, in case of a takeover. As he entered the building with the red Nazi flag flying high, he felt sick. Inside, he asked for Mr. Schnurre, hoping he’d be there, yet at the same time hoping that he wouldn’t be.

  “Jens,” Schnurre said, as he was shown into his office, “you look absolutely dreadful.”

  “Yes,” he said. Yes, he probably did.

  “Coffee!” Schnurre shouted.

  Jens startled.

  They sat in silence until, a few moments later, a woman entered with a tray and served them each a cup.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The large man leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his desk with the fingertips touching.

  “You were asking for me.”

  “Aaah. That’s right. I did.” Schnurre did not elaborate further.

  “And I wanted to ask you a question,” Jens said. He tried to sound calm, though his heart was beating hard. If he was wrong, he’d cause immeasurable damage. If he was right, that seemed no better.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember the dinner party at my . . . at Kristina Bolander’s house?”

  “Of course.”

  “As you were leaving, you asked me if I thought we Swedes were clean. ‘You should have a look in your own cupboards,’ you said.”

  “Ah, that,” Schnurre said and waved his hands as if it was nothing, just meaningless conversation, but there was a new look in his small eyes. Watchful. Calculating. Jens could see why Schnurre was Hitler’s envoy in Stockholm. He felt cold.

  “I’d like to know what you meant,” Jens said.

  Schnurre sipped his coffee, but his eyes did not leave Jens.

  “I think I know some of it,” Jens continued, “but I need to know who’s involved.”

  “Who?” Schnurre shook his head. “Perhaps this is rather a question of who isn’t’.

  “You know,” Jens said. “You know the details.”

  Jim Becker had said that the program had taken on an unbelievable magnitude. Was Christian Günther involved? His other colleagues? Friends?

  Schnurre lit a cigar. He leaned back and the sofa creaked. He puffed smoke up to the ceiling.

  “Of course I know,” he said. “It’s why I wanted to speak with you. We’ve followed your struggle from afar. Ah, Jens. You might think Germany is on its last legs, but we still have sharp teeth. The German network in this country is quite strong.

  “Nah, the thinking in this project resonates strongly with our own. Apart from where the Scandinavian countries come together to fight Germany, of course.

  “Your king and our emperor were close. He told our emperor about the real outcome of the meeting in 1914. Then, in 1922, Sweden set up the State Institute for Racial Biology, the first country in the world to do such a thing. In many ways, Sweden has been a model for us. A model for the world.”

  Jens felt nauseous.

  “But then, with the change of leadership, the three countries lost heart. They tried to appear holier than thou. Neutral.” He gave a false chuckle. “Last time we brought it up with your king, he made as if he didn’t know what we were talking about.

  “Nein, it is true. Things have not stopped. Right now, two out of three Scandinavian countries are under our command—precisely because of this very idea. But, from what we can tell, a pseudo government in Sweden is running in the shadow of the real government—bureaucrats influencing the decisions and then implementing what they want to be implemented. We’d like to see this stopped. We cannot have anyone working with the intent of overthrowing the Reich!”

  Never had he thought he’d find himself on the same side as the Germans. “Names.” Jens didn’t recognize his own voice. “I need names.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Schnurre said and pushed himself out of the armchair. He walked to the wall and lifted down a painting. Behind it was a safe. He put his cigar in an ashtray on the desk, punched in the code on the safe, opened the door and took out a large folder. “I’ll give you what you need.”

  “You have evidence?”

  “But of course.”

  Jens didn’t know what to say. If he took this, he was running Germany’s errands. But if he didn’t, this evil would continue. It was the only chance he had.

  “What’s in this?” he asked.

  “Photos, names . . .” The German shrugged. “But I ask you to be careful. I gave it to one other person, and she ended up dead.”

  “Britta Hallberg.”

  Schnurre nodded. “She was very interested in the matter.”

  “Y
ou were her ‘uneasy friend,’” Jens said, remembering Laura’s words.

  “She used to call me that.” The German nodded.

  “Did you not kill her?”

  Schnurre’s eyes widened. “Why would I kill her? She wanted the same thing as me. Besides, I quite liked her. She knew about people disappearing in the north. I just fueled her interest. The last time I saw her, she had found out the name of a person involved. She was very upset, but she said she had a plan. If only she had proof. And so I gave her the proof she needed. And then, they got her . . .” He shook his head.

  He had to know: “What about Kristina? How do you know her?”

  Schnurre wiggled a fat finger. “Are you a suspicious lover? I know Kristina’s father somewhat, that’s all.”

  “She doesn’t . . . work for you?”

  “God, no. But somebody close to you does. Do you know a Mr. Enander? Lives in the same house as you? Now I am telling you secrets.”

  From now on, Jens would be linked to Schnurre. There were no favors that didn’t demand a return. Barbro had lied. And Kristina might not have had anything to do with anything, after all. Not that it mattered. He and Kristina were over. For many reasons.

  “I’m guessing Barbro has been telling lies,” Schnurre said. “She’s probably scared of what she’s gotten herself into. Britta was better than her.” He sighed theatrically. “She never pretended to be something she was not. I respected her for it. ‘I am here to spy on you,’ she said when we first met. I guess it’s the times. Most people have more than one master.”

  Poor Barbro, Jens thought. She had feared Schnurre finding something out that he already knew.

  Schnurre leaned forward and held out the thick folder. “Be careful, Jens,” he advised. “Lift stones carefully, when you want to see who or what pops out from underneath. You are being watched. As soon as you leave this building, you will be running against the clock.”

  AS JENS LEFT the German trade delegation, the folder under his arm felt too obvious. He stuffed it under the front of his jacket. A woman walking her dog followed him with her gaze. A couple of men came out of the Grand Hotel as he passed and jumped into a waiting car. Jens crossed the street to walk by the water. As he came to the famous restaurant, Operakällaren, someone shouted from the top of the stairs: “Jens!”