by Holt, Anne
“But I can’t just stand there reading aloud with loads of people in front of me, watching,” she had complained. “Does it actually matter if it looks slightly irregular? The most important thing is for them to hear what action we’re taking.”
It had taken half an hour to convince her, and strictly speaking, that was the thirty minutes he should have used to prepare. Anyhow, at least she had come to her senses.
Teddy Larsen zigzagged through the throng of assembled journalists to mount the podium. His tie was crooked, and one of his shirttails had crept out of his trouser waistband. He made a discreet attempt at tucking it in again after a close friend, a TV reporter in the second row, made frantic grimaces to persuade him to look down.
The daily newspapers were arrayed on the table in front of him. He had read them already. Extremely thoroughly. They were all crammed full of material on the health scandal. The Kveldsavisen editor had cleared the entire front page for a color photo of a married couple in their early sixties who sat crouched on either side of a little white marble gravestone with an angel on top. On the stone, the name “Marie” was engraved in gold, and underneath, the lettering read: “Born May 23, 1965, died August 28, 1965. We will never forget you.” The headline above the picture screamed: “WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR LITTLE MARIE’S DEATH?”
As he took his seat, Teddy Larsen looked at the doorway. Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden eventually made her entrance in a tremendous blaze of flashbulbs. She was holding her arm up in front of her face, as if she were on her way to court and about to be remanded in custody for a serious crime, reluctant to be recognized.
“My God,” Teddy Larsen thought. “Those will be terrific photographs.”
He rubbed his eyes momentarily, and then helped Ruth-Dorthe to her place. She peered at the audience, gesturing at them to stop the bombardment of flashes, then cleared her throat and looked down at the papers in front of her.
“Welcome to the press conference,” Teddy Larsen began, having got to his feet. “Health Minister Nordgarden will first give a brief statement on what we currently know about the infant deaths in 1965. That will take approximately ten minutes. Afterward, you’ll have an opportunity to ask questions.”
He nodded encouragingly to Ruth-Dorthe, but she was engrossed in the papers. Taking a couple of steps toward her, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Go ahead, Minister.”
Her voice was frail and obviously nervous when she started. Her big, baby-blue eyes fluttered around the audience, but when they finally came to rest on the manuscript in front of her, the words flowed more smoothly.
“In light of the press headlines of the past few days, I find it necessary to give an account of the historical circumstances with regard to the government’s purchase of the triple vaccine in 1964 and 65. I emphasize that this account will not affect the work of the investigation commission – which, as you know, is almost completed. I will merely provide a purely factual account.”
She suddenly glanced up from her papers, a practiced gesture that failed to have the desired effect, as she then had difficulty finding her place in the text.
“The government wishes the entire matter to be brought into the open,” she continued when she finally found her place. “A considerable amount of work has been undertaken on this matter by the Ministry of Health, and within a short period of time, in order to avoid further speculation. I hope that this is an issue we will soon be able to put behind us so that we can return our focus to more pressing current problems on the agenda.”
Teddy Larsen closed his eyes in despair. He had deleted that sentence when he had read through the speech, politely telling Ruth-Dorthe that the last thing she should do was minimize the importance of the issue. She evidently didn’t give a shit for his advice.
“A limited quantity of triple vaccine was purchased for the cohort of 1965. The supplier was the reputable Dutch pharmaceutical company Achenfarma. The National Institute of Public Health was listed as the importer. Toward the end of 1965, reports were coming in about an unusually high infant mortality rate that year. The triple vaccine was then withdrawn, although I emphasize …”
Her voice was now a screeching falsetto and she had to clear her throat twice before she managed to continue.
“… I emphasize that no causal relationship was demonstrated between the triple vaccine and the deaths. Therefore this action was taken to be on the safe side. Closer investigation has shown that the preserving agent in the vaccine was contaminated. For the following year’s cohort, an arrangement was made to buy the vaccine from an extremely reputable American pharmaceutical company.”
Ruth-Dorthe increased her pace, now reading so fast that some of the journalists had problems following what she said, and a murmur of protest spread through the room. Teddy Larsen wrote two words on a Post-it note, which he placed as discreetly as possible in front of the minister.
Though she completely lost her thread, she digested his message and read more slowly when she resumed her speech.
“This was the first the government knew of the damaging effects of Achenfarma’s vaccine. Public health authorities caution that it is of crucial importance that the vaccination program retains the confidence of the populace. If more than ten per cent of the population stops receiving vaccinations, then the program loses its protective efficacy. I would remind you that the vaccines routinely administered in Norway are intended to provide protection against serious and sometimes life-threatening illnesses, and there is no reason …”
She emphasized the gravity of her point by striking the table.
“… no reason at all not to trust the vaccines that are administered to babies and children nowadays.”
Total silence descended on the room before the storm broke. Teddy Larsen had to think on his feet, and after a minute’s struggle, shouting assurances that they would all get a chance to speak, he brought the rows of journalists to some semblance of order. The questions rained down, about everything from demands for compensation to whether this Achenfarma company was still in existence. Dagbladet wanted to know if the Ministry of Health had been aware of the connection between the deaths and the triple vaccine for years, or if they had just found out about the scandal through the work of the commission. Bergens Tidende was represented by a hothead whose questions were unnecessarily detailed, unnecessarily provocative and at least for the time being, unnecessarily conspiratorial.
Ruth-Dorthe astonished Teddy by responding with a calmness and clarity that he had never witnessed before. She did not allow herself to be knocked off her perch, and answered more precisely than anyone would have expected. Teddy began to relax his shoulders, thinking that this was not going too badly, when all was said and done. The only thing giving him slight cause for concern was that Little Lettvik was sitting perfectly still in the front row, without writing a single note. Only when the hailstorm of questions had subsided somewhat did she stand up brusquely and ask to speak. Ruth-Dorthe shot her a friendly smile and told her amiably to go ahead, before Teddy had a chance to do so.
“I have noted with interest that the minister wishes to bring all the historical facts out into the open,” she began, noticing with satisfaction that the other journalists kept their mouths completely shut as all eyes swiveled in her direction.
Even the photographers paused; they all wanted to hear what Little Lettvik had to say, since she was the one who had broken the story in the first place.
“And all this information about the purchase of the vaccine is interesting. Is the minister certain it was Achenfarma that manufactured this vaccine?”
Ruth-Dorthe appeared confused: a tiny tic twitched up and down on the left side of her face.
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes indeed, that was where it was bought.”
“But I’m not asking where the vaccine was bought,” Little Lettvik said, standing with legs apart, her wiry hair sticking out in all directions, her entire body seeming eager, like a much too old and ov
erweight elkhound trying to show the puppies how things should be done. “I’m asking who manufactured it.”
“No, yes,” Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden responded, riffling through her papers.
She found nothing, and looked at Teddy for assistance, but he shook his head and shrugged before commenting, “No, manufactured … Might that have been another subcontractor in the pharmaceutical industry?”
“Is that intended as a question on behalf of the government minister?” Little Lettvik enquired. “In that case, I can shed light on the matter: the vaccine that took the lives of perhaps a thousand infants in 1965 was made in the GDR. By a company called Pharmamed. It is still in existence, but is now privatized.”
After a moment’s silence, the buzz erupted. TV journalists pushed their way forward and thrust microphones at Little Lettvik, giving breathless instructions to their camera operators about alternating between the journalist and the minister.
“In fact, we at Kveldsavisen have done what the Grinde Commission failed to do,” Little Lettvik continued, smiling broadly. “We have examined the overseas archives. It was very simple.”
She smiled again, indulgent and malicious, as she crossed to the podium and threw a document down on the table in front of the minister.
“The East German company Pharmamed was granted an export license in 1964 for a batch of vaccines destined for Achenfarma. But the triple vaccine never went on to the Dutch market. The only thing that was processed there was the packaging, as the entire deadly consignment was sold on to Norway.”
A young man rushed in through the door, where he remained standing for a few seconds, frantically scanning the room. Then he spotted Little Lettvik and crashed forward to hand her a newspaper.
“Thanks, Knut,” she said, permitting herself an arrogant little bow before she held up the paper.
“This is Kveldsavisen’s special edition, which is hitting the streets as we speak,” she said, peering around at her colleagues. “You can read all about it there.”
Chuckling softly, she took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “I have also come across a letter. From the Norwegian Ministry of Health to Achenfarma, dated April 10, 1964. The letter concerns a reminder about the vaccine consignment. However, right at the very end, it says, and for simplicity’s sake I’m translating this: ‘The Ministry of Health confirms that part payment will be made directly to the subcontractor.’”
Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden looked as though she had stopped breathing. Teddy Larsen felt a burning desire to bring the session to a halt, but he knew that doing so would only make a bad situation worse.
“I would remind you all,” Little Lettvik said, and now she was speaking to her colleagues as much as to the minister, “that this happened in the very coldest year of the Cold War. Three years after the Berlin Wall was built. When the GDR was politically isolated and all NATO countries were implementing trade restrictions. Six years before Willy Brandt launched his politics of reconciliation.”
Little Lettvik was queen of the castle, and everyone knew it. She paused for effect.
“Can the minister tell us why none of these facts were included in the statement she has just given, the statement that was supposed to bring the historical facts out into the open?”
Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden stiffened.
“It is not my remit to respond to completely unsubstantiated information.”
“Unsubstantiated? Read Kveldsavisen, Minister. And I’ll give the government a piece of friendly advice, if I may. Start to look more closely at the countries to which iron ore was exported from Narvik in 1965. Look very closely at that. Because we already have.”
She resumed her seat.
None of the others composed themselves sufficiently to ask further questions, and Teddy Larsen quickly took advantage of the opportunity to declare the press conference over.
Ruth-Dorthe darted from the room, followed by a posse of photographers who tripped over one another, screaming and swearing, but none of them was quick enough to spot that Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden was in floods of tears.
23.51, EIDSVOLL
“Are you asleep, darling?” he whispered from the doorway.
His wife sat up in bed.
“No,” she sniffed. “I’m not sleeping. I’m thinking.”
It distressed him when he heard her voice. Its despair. Sorrow. They had spent so many years learning to live with this. Somehow they had managed to make it into something that bound them together, something serious and weighty that was theirs and theirs alone. The picture of little Marie hung on the wall above the settee; she was naked on a sheepskin rug, with a look of surprise on her little face, mouth open and a tiny dribble suspended from her bottom lip, and enormous eyes like saucers. It was the only professional photograph they had of the child, and it had lost its color with the passage of time, just as their lives had faded after Marie’s death, and for some reason, no more children had come to Kjell and Elsa Haugen. One year after the child had died, he had refurbished her room as a workroom, and Elsa had tacitly accepted that. However, he knew that she had a shoebox filled with the baby’s effects: a pale pink sleepsuit, a terry-towel diaper, her rattle, and a lock of hair they had snipped off after she had gone. The box was kept at the bottom of the wardrobe, and Elsa had never shared it with him, but he did not regard this as a reproach. It was a mother’s thing, a mother’s memories; he understood and accepted that. Over the years they had stopped marking Marie’s birthday, and little by little life had become tolerable. They visited her grave on Christmas Eve, but not otherwise. They both thought it best that way.
He stared at his own hands, at his wedding ring embedded on his finger.
“Come on, let’s make some coffee,” he said. “We’re not going to get any sleep anyway, either of us.”
She gave him a tentative smile, drying her tears with a big, crumpled handkerchief, and padded after him down to the kitchen. They sat on opposite sides of the dining table, an everyday table with only one chair on either side.
“It’s so peculiar,” she said softly. “I always think of Marie as a baby. But she would have been grown up. Thirty-two years old. Maybe we …”
The tears cascaded down her exhausted cheeks, and she squeezed his hand.
“Maybe we would have had grandchildren, even. Someone to take over the farm.”
She gazed at her husband. He was fifty-four years old. They had met at the community hall at the age of fifteen, and had been faithful to each other ever since. If it hadn’t been for Kjell, her life would have been over the morning she woke to find Marie dead in her cot. For four hours, she had held the baby tight, rocking her, and refusing to be parted from her when the local doctor arrived. In the end, it was Kjell who had persuaded her to let go. It was Kjell who had lain down beside her, keeping her alive for the next three days. It was Kjell who, over the years, had made it possible for her to smile at the thought of their child; the child who, despite everything, they had been able to keep for a few months.
“Well,” Kjell said, looking out the window; the darkness was no longer winter black, and a gray glimmer in the night sky promised that spring would soon arrive in earnest. “There’s no point thinking like that, Elsa. There’s just no point.”
“You shouldn’t have let that journalist come, Kjell,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have let her come. Everything’s become … everything’s become …”
He pressed her hands more tightly.
“There, there,” he said, trying to elicit a smile.
“It’s as if it’s all come flooding back.” She sobbed quietly. “All the awfulness. What we’ve managed to—”
“Hush, hush,” he whispered. “I know, sweetheart. I know. It was stupid. But she seemed so decent on the phone. It seemed so important to … what was it she said? To turn the spotlight on this vaccine scandal. I felt it was the right thing to do, the way she put it. She seemed so interested and sympathetic.”
“She wasn’t particularly sympathet
ic when she came,” Elsa said, raising her voice and releasing his hands in order to blow her nose. “Did you see how she stared at Marie’s photograph? What a cheek she had, asking to borrow it. What a cheek.”
She stood up angrily and removed the jug from the coffee machine. She poured for them both, but instead of sitting down again, she remained standing with her back to the kitchen worktop.
“And that other woman, the photographer. The way she pushed us around in the cemetery. Did you see how she trampled on the flowers? Sorry, was all she said, as she stamped all over Herdis Bråttom’s brand-new grave. What a way to carry on!”
Kjell Haugen did not say a word. He sipped his coffee and let Elsa have her rant. For a short time, it made her less sorrowful. He was desperately full of remorse. The woman from Kveldsavisen had been there for barely half an hour, and hadn’t listened to what they had to say. She was not interested in them; she only wanted the details and jotted them down on a notepad in a tearing hurry, without even making eye contact. She hadn’t even accepted coffee and cake, even though Elsa had baked a cream layer cake before they came.
“She didn’t even cotton on that Dr. Bang understood what had happened,” Kjell said suddenly. “We didn’t get to tell her about that. That he wrote letters to the authorities for many years afterward.”
Elsa was staring out the window. The sky had begun to brighten. Faint rays of morning sun seemed to be creeping up from the field, from every furrow in the newly ploughed soil.
“It’s like a knife,” she whispered. “It’s as if someone has sliced open a scar that has taken so many years to heal.”
Kjell Haugen stood up stiffly and headed for the living room, where he lifted the copy of the newspaper off the coffee table. All of a sudden, he tore it to shreds, and threw the pieces into the stove. He took hold of a matchbox but his hands were trembling so violently that he could not succeed in setting the paper ablaze.