Gieger

by Gustaf Skördeman

  Sara put down the yearbooks and headed down to the rec room in the basement.

  This was yet another phenomenon that seemed to have died out with the arrival of the 1980s – the general need for a rec room at home. Down in the basement – without the slightest concern about mould or radon.

  That was where she found what she was looking for.

  Not only were there about ten photo albums, but she also found several dozen cases of film roll, an old Super 8 cine camera, a projector and a screen.

  There was also a rickety old-school TV that had been broken even back when Sara was a child. Had Stellan kept it as a reminder of his forgotten greatness? Peculiar.

  The sight of the projector opened the door to a long-forgotten room in Sara’s mind.

  Now she could picture Stellan with the camera, filming everything that happened in the family, and how Malin and Lotta had looked uncomfortable during the long film screenings in the evenings. Screenings that Sara had loved. She loved getting to participate in the fairytale family’s life in detail, to share their journeys, see more of the world through Stellan’s camera lens and fantasise about how she would shyly avoid questions from envious friends about why she got to hang out with the famous Uncle Stellan.

  Sara didn’t imagine that Stellan had got out the cine camera in connection with his secret talks – that he would have documented every single aspect of his life, no matter how private, like a present-day video blogger.

  But perhaps it was worth starting by checking out who had been a presence in the Broman residence in the 1970s and 1980s. If Ober had met Geiger that often, then he could definitely be there. But how would she know who he was? Sara had no idea.

  She rigged the projector and screen. She’d spent so many hours lying there and listening to the rattle of the faded film as it was fed forward. Sometimes she’d fallen asleep while Stellan was talking. When she woke, she was sometimes alone with him, and he would either have carried on talking without noticing that she’d drifted off, or the film was over and he would be sitting there looking at her with a friendly smile.

  She loaded the first roll of film into the forward mount, which was on an arm that had to be angled upwards. Then she carefully fed the strip of film through the slots and all the small wheels that ran the film. She inserted it behind the lens and up onto the empty reel that she’d attached to the rear mount.

  Then she drew the curtains over the windows of the rec room. They were just below the ceiling. The room was below ground level – something of a symbolic grave, it struck her. Complete with flowers visible in the beds outside. Two metres below – what on earth was she going to encounter?

  The first roll began to turn, and on the white canvas she saw a square image in faded colours depicting the Bromans next to the Ölandsbron bridge.

  They had clearly rented a cabin from a farmer on Öland, and Stellan had deemed him and his wife sufficiently exotic to merit several minutes of footage – the farmer in the barn, the farmer driving his tractor, his wife milking the cows. The picture shook slightly when Malin reached forward with her hand towards the muzzle of a calf, and cried out with fright as the big pink tongue shot out and drowned her tiny hand in saliva. Sara assumed that Stellan had laughed at the terrified child, hence the slight tremble. Was that what he’d been like? The jovial father of past times, who derived malicious pleasure from his duties? To whom children were more entertainment than responsibility?

  Sara realised that farmers on Öland were probably not the prime suspects when it came to espionage on behalf of East Germany, and she switched to a new roll of film.

  It was an ordinary summer’s day in the Bromans’ home. Agneta was in the kitchen; Jane was in the background with the vacuum cleaner. Then Stellan went into the garden. Malin and Lotta were in the hammock. Sara was on the lawn with her arms pointing straight in front of her, walking jerkily.

  ‘Robot.’

  A popular game when they had been little.

  Sara had been tasked with walking like a robot and obeying the sisters, no matter what they said. Fetching toys, stealing sweets from the kitchen or just walking around and sounding mechanical until Lotta came up with another order.

  A strange game.

  Neither of the sisters had ever been the robot.

  Sara put the roll of film back in its case. Was it possible to copy these films? Was that something she wanted to do?

  Would her kids want to watch them? No matter how you interpreted the films and what they depicted of children’s play, they were an important part of her childhood.

  Then there was a roll of film showing Midsummer festivities and a string of faces. Agneta, the daughters, a young Lelle Rydell together with the merry sextet Tage Danielsson, Monica Zetterlund, Lena Nyman, Magnus Härenstam, Brasse Brännström and Eva Remaeus. And three unknown guests. But when Sara took photos of them on her phone and sent them to Lelle Rydell, he was quickly able to identify them.

  It turned out the unfamiliar faces belonged to Netan Stenberg, the legendary producer in SVT’s entertainment division, Luna de Lyon, the queen of Swedish private theatre for decades, and Lasse Warg, the biggest entertainment producer in Sweden in the 1970s and 1980s.

  Midsummer with the entertainment elite of Sweden, then.

  ‘Summer party ’85’ offered a more mixed crowd: Lennart Bodström, the foreign minister fired for refusing to accuse the Russians of operating submarines in Swedish waters, Ebbe Carlsson and Harry Schein. Anders ‘Lillen’ Eklund, the recent European heavyweight boxing champion. He seemed palpably uncomfortable in the assorted company. Then Lill Lindfors made an entrance, and to the delight of the guests she offered up a version of the skirt-removal move that she’d pulled off at the Eurovision Song Contest earlier that spring. Her skirt fell down, and when the penny dropped with the other guests, there was an outburst of vociferous applause. Sara could see the eagerness in the silent clapping, the open mouths as she brought the house down.

  So many faces, so many people, so long ago.

  Thrilled to be there, to be a part of it all, to belong.

  They were all gone now.

  Sara looked up 1985 on Wikipedia.

  Chernenko had died in the USSR after just fourteen months in post as General Secretary and was succeeded by Gorbachev. It had been the middle of the Treholt espionage trial in Norway. The Bofors scandal was in full swing. A bomb at Frankfurt Airport had killed three and hurt forty-two. Islamic Jihad had taken responsibility. Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior was sunk by the French secret service with one fatality. In December 1985, Palme had announced that he was to undertake an official visit to the Soviet Union in the spring of 1986. There was outcry among the country’s military officers. Palestinian terrorist attacks at airports in Rome and Vienna.

  What had Sara been doing then?

  She had been alive, but in another world. In 1985, Sara and Malin had been ten years old, Lotta had been twelve.

  In the films, the fashion of the era was reflected clearly in the sisters’ hairdos and clothing. Backcombed hair, pastel colours, loads of bracelets.

  Then parades in East Berlin. Street scenes. Sights.

  The old films lacked sound, and it occurred to Sara that it had been at the Bromans’ that she’d first become interested in silent films. She still loved the dramatic expressions in old silent movies. Faded tints, jerky movements and the odd feeling of seeing people talking without there being any sound.

  A big park, a TV broadcast tower, a large monument. It seemed to be Berlin, just like it said on the case. Then a reception. A large children’s choir, the audience with Swedish and East German pennants. Stellan receiving some prize. Agneta beside him, but two steps back, as ever. Malin, however, was at her father’s side. So it was presumably Lotta filming.

  A dinner in a large room with a giant painting depicting the heroes of the revolutions and huge East German flags. Once again, Lotta seemed to be filming. The division of labour seemed to be this – when it was important for
Stellan himself to be on film, his daughter was handed the camera.

  Who were the other guests? Some form of East German potentates, yes, but were they just cultural figures or were there secret service people there too? In the DDR, they often seemed to have been one and the same thing.

  Perhaps Hedin would be able to identify some of them?

  The hours passed and Sara was lost in a past that felt increasingly mysterious, despite the fact that she herself had been there.

  Clothes, glasses and haircuts from another era. It wasn’t that cult nostalgia that hit home whenever you watched films from the 1970s and 1980s. It was more frightening – with an ominous undertone.

  Even the patterns of movement and postures were different, and Sara found herself thinking of Swedish cinema from this period, in which the way the characters spoke had more in common with movie actors of the 1940s than people in 2020s Stockholm.

  How odd to go back to that time with all the answers in hand – to know how different everything would become. That the Cold War would end. The internet. September 11, 2001.

  Had something that had taken place then changed the course of history?

  Stellan and his friends had obviously wanted to prevent the collapse of East Germany. If the authorities in the DDR had known what was going to happen, would they have taken a tougher line?

  The next film transported Sara to a big party at the Bromans’ home. There was some sort of Great Gatsby theme. White tie, big band, cocktails. The film cases contained handwritten lists of names that Sara assumed were the invited guests, line upon line of names and places of work: Ministry of Defence, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Ministry of Finance, Bofors, Ericsson, ASEA, Stockholm University, Uppsala University, SVT, Swedish Radio, SAS, army, F 13 and F 16 Air Force stations. Not just celebrities, then. Sara assumed that it was Agneta who’d been assigned to preparing the lists, since they were written in a woman’s handwriting. Perhaps she’d had no idea of their double purpose.

  Sara spotted Martin’s father Eric among the listed guests. Of course. A successful CEO who lived in the same neighbourhood. She wondered what Eric Titus would say if he found out he’d been tricked by a Stasi collaborator . . .

  Then she watched a film from New Year’s Eve, in which all the rooms in the house were filled with fake snow and everyone was dressed in winter sports gear. Parties that lived long in the popular memory.

  And then other films with less striking events.

  There were games of cards, dinners, events with fewer entertainment personalities and men with more businesslike appearances – pipe smoking, discussions, sweaty atmospheres – some of them firmly gripping their drinks. People passing by in the background or parked with young blonde women in various corners. Middle-aged men in ill-fitting suits with unfiltered cigarettes and weird haircuts. Eastern European in appearance, was Sara’s prejudiced evaluation. And she trusted her prejudices.

  She stared at the men and realised that she needed help.

  There was really only one person she could call: Eva Hedin.

  The retired professor was helpful – she was clearly finished with her work for the day. She said she couldn’t receive picture messages, but emails were fine. So Sara took photos of the projector screen and sent the images to Hedin. Maybe it wasn’t so secure sending them online, but it was a quick way to get help.

  Three faces were given names: Alexei Grigorin, Yuri Dmitri and Jerzy Dudek. All had later been deported and declared persona non grata, and prior to that they’d all worked for eastern state embassies with various cover stories. Grigorin had been first secretary to the legation, but had in fact been the KGB number two. Dmitri had been a naval attaché, but had actually served as the GRU military intelligence chief in their Stockholm bureau. Dudek had been secretary to the ambassador at the Czechoslovak embassy.

  Contacts with diplomats from the East were nothing out of the ordinary at the time, Hedin explained. Firstly, Sweden’s official stance was one of neutrality – freedom of alliance in peace times, with the aim of maintaining neutrality in times of war. The plan was to avoid taking a position in the ideological struggle between communism and capitalism, which meant it was no stranger to socialise with Russians, Czechs and East Germans than it was to socialise with Americans and British people.

  Naturally, it also helped that the Russians and Poles were good drinking buddies. They were generous with the vodka, entertaining when they sang their melancholy songs and impressive in terms of their tolerance for alcohol. Merely seeing a second secretary from an embassy drain two whole bottles of booze by himself was reason enough to invite him.

  Sara sent photos of all the participants to Hedin, and received a string of names and positions in reply. Undersecretaries of state, director generals, cabinet ministers, officers, desk officers, pundits, editors, authors, publishers, artists. Anyone who could be involved in helping to shape perceptions of the East, according to the professor.

  A more crass description was that at Uncle Stellan’s, the Stasi, KGB and GRU could let their hair down and party while getting on good terms with Social Democratic Party bigwigs.

  Before Hedin could carry on, Sara’s mobile beeped to mark the arrival of a text message. After apologising, she took the phone from her ear and read it.

  It was from Anna.

  We’re going to announce that Agneta Broman’s missing.

  OK.

  Perhaps it would help. If Agneta had been kidnapped, then the kidnappers really ought to have been in touch by now. It was probably just as well the story went to the media.

  Sara remembered that Hedin was waiting for her and put the phone back to her ear.

  ‘Sorry, I received a text message . . . Hello?’

  Hedin seemed to have hung up.

  Understandable.

  At any rate, Sara had found out much more about the guests at Stellan’s parties, and the thinking behind who was invited. It wasn’t as straightforward as anyone who was successful being allowed in. There had been a clear agenda.

  Sara put away her mobile and pulled the stack of photo albums towards her. These contained the same mixture of politicians, celebrities and family holidays. Paris, London, Berlin.

  In addition to the very biggest artists and quite a few foreign celebrities, all of Sweden’s prime ministers appeared to have visited the Bromans’ home – for parties, dinners, lunch or coffee. The visits had been carefully documented: Erlander, Palme, Fälldin, Ullsten, Carlsson and Bildt. Only Göran Persson was missing. And after his stint, there didn’t seem to have been any social gatherings of that kind at Uncle Stellan’s.

  And there was a real showstopper: Mikhail Gorbachev. Accompanied by Ingvar Carlsson.

  In an album from 1991 there were a dozen photos depicting the meeting. First, Mr and Mrs Broman met the Swedish prime minister and the Soviet president in front of the house. Then there were photos of Stellan showing them around the garden, and after that dinner, which seemed to have carried on fairly late into the evening. The table was decorated with Swedish and Soviet flags, as well as blue and yellow garlands. There was plenty of schnapps. But following the main course, there was nothing further documented.

  Well, even the world’s leaders needed to unwind on occasion . . .

  Sara remembered Gorbachev’s visit to Stockholm. It had been the National Day, and she’d gone into the city, just like thousands of others, to catch a glimpse of the president and Nobel Peace Prize laureate. At the time, she’d had no idea that the legendary leader was going to the Bromans’ that evening. The house where Sara had played so many times. It was strange that he didn’t dine with the king. But Sara googled it and found out that it hadn’t been a formal state visit, so perhaps that explained it.

  Just a few months after the visit to the Bromans’, both Gorbachev and Ingvar Carlsson had fallen out of power.

  The next album that Sara opened was labelled ‘Bromma 1982’.

  A young Agneta Broman in a summer dress was serving f
ood in the garden, her face almost completely hidden by her huge glasses – 1970s spectacles. The 1980s hadn’t yet arrived on her face.

  Did she know what Stellan was up to?

  Did she care?

  Where was she now?

  Would the public appeal turn anything up?

  Agneta was the piece of the jigsaw that Sara couldn’t find a space for. If she’d been shot, too, then where was her body? If she’d fled from the murderer, why hadn’t she made contact? If the murderer had kidnapped her, then why?

  What was she doing right now?

  26

  STELLAN’S WIFE MISSING.

  ‘Where is Aunt Agneta?’

  ‘Murdered?’

  The final headline had her old driving licence photo underneath it. The evening news placards outside the 7-Eleven on Hornsgatan were all about her, just like the front pages of the morning papers that people were reading in the sunshine.

  Agneta felt the contours of the pistol against her thigh. It might be necessary in the unlikely event that anyone recognised her, and it was close to hand in her coat pocket.

  An old woman wearing a coat in the heat of summer was hardly worthy of notice by anyone else. The surrounding world’s lack of interest was to her advantage, Agneta had come to realise. Without doubt, she preferred anonymity – and not just for the sake of her mission.

  ‘Aunt Agneta’ was all over the place.

  She’d suddenly found herself at the centre of the news cycle. For the first time in her life.

  And it was, unfortunately, extremely poor timing.

  Right when she needed her invisibility most of all, the country was wallpapered with striking yellow placards bellowing at the public to keep their eye out for her.

  It was all meant with the best of intentions, of course. Let’s all pitch in to find the father of the nation’s wife. The entire country’s second mother.

  She’d never been that, throughout all those years when her husband had dominated the media scene. Instead, she’d blended into the background – it had all been about him. And all the reports that had been done on the family had focused on their daughters and shown them together with their father.