‘A better society,’ said Peter calmly. ‘The people who have been running this country haven’t made a good job of it. They’ve allowed . . . foreign forces to take up too much space. Allowed what is Swedish and pure to be pushed out.’ He cast a belligerent look at Paula, who swallowed repeatedly in order not to react. This was not the right place or time. And she was all too aware that he was goading her. ‘But all that’s going to change. The Swedish people have become more and more aware that we’ll be heading towards the abyss if we continue in this manner, if we allow those in power to keep tearing down what our ancestors built up. Our organization can offer a better society.’
‘And in what way – theoretically speaking – would an elderly, retired history teacher represent a threat to a . . . better society?’
‘Theoretically speaking . . .’ Peter again clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Theoretically speaking, of course he wouldn’t pose any real threat. But he contributed to spreading a false image, an image that the victors of the war have worked hard to promote. And naturally that could not be tolerated. Theoretically speaking.’
Martin was about to reply, but it seemed Peter wasn’t finished.
‘All the images, all the accounts from the concentration camps and the like are pure fabrications, exaggerated lies that after the fact have been hammered into truths. And do you know why? In order to completely suppress the original message, the correct message. The victors of the war are the ones who write the history books, and they decided to drown the truth in blood, distort the image that the world would see, so that no one would dare stand up and question whether the right side won. And Erik Frankel was part of that blackout, that propaganda. And that’s why – hypothetically speaking – Erik Frankel stood in the way of the society we want to create.’
‘And yet, to your knowledge, your organization never issued any threats against him?’ Martin studied the man intently. He knew what the answer would be.
‘No, we didn’t. We work within the laws of a democracy. Ballots. Election manifestos. Acquiring power through votes. We would view anything else as untenable.’ He glanced at Paula, whose hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She was picturing the soldiers who had come and taken away her father. They’d had the same look in their eyes.
‘Well, we won’t disturb you any longer,’ said Martin, getting up. ‘The Uddevalla police gave us the names of the other board members, so of course we’ll be talking to them about this matter too.’
Peter stood up and nodded. ‘Of course. But no one else is going to tell you anything different. And as for Frans . . . well, I wouldn’t pay much attention to an old man who lives in the past.’
Erica was finding it hard to concentrate on her writing. Thoughts of her mother kept getting in the way. She took out the stack of articles and put the one with the photograph on top. It was so frustrating. Staring at those faces, without being able to get any answers. She leaned down, putting her face close to the picture and studying the five individuals in detail, one after the other.
First Erik Frankel. A serious expression as he looked at the camera. Rigid posture. There was something sad about him, and without knowing whether she was right or not, she came to the conclusion that it was his brother’s imprisonment that had left its mark on Erik. But he’d had the same aura of solemnity and sorrow when she’d met with him in June to ask about the medal.
Erica shifted her gaze to the person standing next to Erik. Frans Ringholm. He was handsome. Very handsome. Blond hair curling a bit longer over his collar than his parents probably would have liked. A big, charming smile for the camera. He had his arms slung casually over the shoulders of those standing on either side of him. Neither of them seemed pleased about it.
Erica studied the person to the right of Frans. Her mother: Elsy Moström. Her expression was certainly gentler than Erica could recall having seen. But there was a slight strain to her delicate smile, signalling that she didn’t care for Frans’s arm around her shoulders. Erica couldn’t help musing about how sweet her mother looked. The Elsy she’d known had been cold and unapproachable. There was no hint of that side to her nature in the photo. Erica gently touched the image of her mother’s face. How different everything would have been if her mother had been like the girl pictured here. What had happened to her? What had stripped away all the gentleness? What had caused indifference to replace that wistful gaze? Why hadn’t she ever been able to put those soft arms of hers, visible under the short sleeves of her floral-print dress, around her daughters, hugging them close?
Erica shifted to the next person in the photo. Britta was not looking into the camera. Instead, she had turned to look at Elsy. Or at Frans. It was impossible to tell. Erica reached for the magnifying glass on the desk. She held it over Britta’s face and squinted to make the image as sharp as possible, but she still couldn’t tell for sure. Britta was frowning, and there was something harsh and resolute about her jaw. And her eyes. Erica was almost positive. Britta was looking at one of them – Elsy or Frans – or maybe both.
Then the last person in the photo. About the same age as the others. Also blond, like Frans, but his curly hair was shorter. Tall and quite slender, with a meditative expression on his face. Not happy, but not sad either. Meditative was the closest word Erica could think of to describe the way he looked.
She read the article again. Hans Olavsen was a Norwegian resistance fighter who had fled Norway on board the fishing boat Elfrida, based in Fjällbacka. He’d been given refuge by the boat’s captain, Elof Moström. According to the reporter who had written the article, Hans was now celebrating the end of the war along with his friends in Fjällbacka.
Erica returned the article to the top of the stack of papers. She had a gut feeling that there was something about the dynamics of that group of young people, something that felt . . . She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The one thing she knew for certain was that the key to understanding her mother lay in a deeper understanding of the relationships between these friends, and perhaps the Norwegian resistance fighter, Hans Olavsen. And there were only two people she could ask: Axel Frankel and Britta Johansson.
She really didn’t want to go back there and bother the confused old woman, but how else would she find out what lay behind that angry look in her eyes? Maybe if she could explain to Britta’s husband why she needed to talk to his wife, he would understand. Tomorrow, Erica decided. Tomorrow she would grab the bull by the horns and go back there.
If she could just catch Britta in one of her more lucid moments she was convinced she would fine the answers she needed.
Chapter 24
Fjällbacka 1944
It had taken its toll on Elof Moström, the war. All those trips across the water, which was no longer his friend but his enemy. He’d always loved the sea off Bohuslän. Loved the way it moved, the way it smelled, the way it sounded when it surged against the bow of his boat. But ever since the war started, he and the sea had not had the same sort of friendship. The sea had become hostile. It hid dangers beneath the surface, mines that at any moment could explode, blowing him and his entire crew sky high. And the Germans who patrolled the area weren’t much better. He never knew what they might be up to. The sea had become unreliable in a whole different way than it used to be. Storms, shoals – those were things they had learned to handle, that they could deal with after generations of experience. And if nature sometimes got the better of them, it was accepted with equanimity and composure.
This new capriciousness was much worse. If they survived the crossing, there were other dangers when they docked to unload their cargo. Every time he pulled into harbour, he was reminded of how they’d lost Axel Frankel to the Germans. He stared out at the horizon, allowing himself to think about the boy for a few minutes. So brave. Seemingly so invincible. Now nobody knew where he was. He’d heard rumours that the boy had been taken to Grini, but he didn’t know whether that was true. And even if it was, there was no way of knowing whether he was still the
re. He’d heard that they had started shipping prisoners to Germany. Maybe that was where the boy was now. Or maybe he was no longer alive. Six months had gone by since the Germans had taken him, and there’d been no word of him in all that time. So it was hard not to think the worst. Elof sighed heavily. Occasionally he ran into the boy’s parents, Dr and Mrs Frankel. But he never dared meet their gaze. He would cross to the other side of the street, and hurry past with his eyes averted. He felt that he should have been able to do something. But what? Maybe he should have refused to take the boy along in the first place.
His heart ached whenever he saw Axel’s brother. That small, serious boy named Erik. Not that he’d ever been much of a talker, but since his brother had disappeared he’d grown even quieter. Elof had thought of having a word with Elsy. He didn’t like her spending so much time with Erik and the other boy – Frans. Not that he had anything against Erik. Frans was a different story; ‘hooligan’ was the word that came to mind when he tried to describe that boy. But neither of them was suitable company for Elsy. The Moströms just weren’t in the same class as the Frankels and the Ringholms. They might as well have been born on a different planet, and nothing good would ever come of their two worlds meeting. Maybe it was all right back when they were kids playing tag and capture the flag. But they were older now. And nothing good would come of it.
Hilma had pointed this out to him on numerous occasions. Asked him to talk to the girl. But so far he hadn’t had the heart to do so. The war had made everything more difficult. Friends were practically the only luxuries the young people had left, and who was he to rob Elsy of her friends? But sooner or later he’d be forced to do it. Boys will be boys, after all. Games of tag and capture the flag would soon turn to secret embraces. He knew that from personal experience. He’d been young once himself, even though that now seemed so very long ago. The time had come for the two worlds to be separate once more; that was how things were, and how they would always be. It was impossible to change the natural order of things.
‘Captain! You’d better come and have a look.’
Startled out of his musings, Elof turned towards the source of the interruption. One of his crew was urgently motioning for him to come over. Elof frowned in surprise and then went to join him. They were in open water and still had a few hours left before arriving at Fjällbacka harbour.
‘We’ve got a stowaway,’ said Calle Ingvarsson, pointing at the cargo hold. Elof looked where he was pointing. A young boy was huddled behind the sacks of cargo. Now he crept out from his hiding place.
‘I discovered him when I heard a sound coming from inside there. He was coughing so hard, it was a wonder we didn’t hear him up on deck,’ said Calle, sticking a pinch of snuff in his mouth. He grimaced. The snuff available during the war years was a poor substitute for the real thing.
‘Who are you? And what are you doing on my boat?’ asked Elof brusquely. He considered calling for reinforcements from his crew up above.
‘My name is Hans Olavsen, and I came on board in Kristiansand,’ said the youth, speaking a lilting Norwegian. He stood up and held out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Elof shook hands with him. The boy looked him in the eye and said, ‘I was hoping to go to Sweden with you. The Germans have . . . well, let’s just say that if I value my life, I can no longer remain on Norwegian soil.’
Elof was silent for a long time, thinking about what the boy had said. He didn’t like being tricked in this manner. But on the other hand, what else could the boy have done? It wasn’t as if he could approach the boat openly, in full view of all the Germans patrolling the harbour, and ask for transport to Sweden.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked at last, looking the boy up and down.
‘Oslo.’
‘And what have you done that makes it impossible for you to stay in Norway?’
‘People don’t talk about what they’ve been forced to do during the war,’ said Hans, a dark shadow passing over his face. ‘Let’s just say that the underground movement no longer has any use for me.’
He probably took people over the border, thought Elof. It was a dangerous job, and once the Germans were on to you, it was wise to get out while you still could. Elof felt himself relenting. He thought about Axel, who’d made the trip to Norway so many times without ever thinking about his own safety. And he’d paid the price. Could he do less than the doctor’s nineteen-year-old son? He made up his mind then and there.
‘All right, we’ll take you along. We’re heading for Fjällbacka. Have you had anything to eat?’
Hans shook his head and swallowed hard. ‘No. Not since the day before yesterday. The trip from Oslo was . . . difficult. I couldn’t take a direct route.’ He looked down.
‘Calle, get the boy some food. I need to get back on deck – it’s my job to see that we get home in one piece, which means navigating round those damn mines the Germans insist on spreading all over these waterways,’ he explained as he started up the companionway. When he glanced back, he met the boy’s eyes. The sympathy he felt surprised him. How old could he be? Eighteen, no more than that. And yet Elof could read so much in his eyes that shouldn’t be there. Lost youth and the accompanying innocence. The war had undeniably claimed many victims. And not just those who had died.
Chapter 25
Gösta felt somehow to blame. If he’d been doing his job, maybe Mattias wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital. Possibly it wouldn’t have made any difference, but he might have found out that Per had broken into the Frankels’ house a few weeks before the boys did, and that could have changed the course of events. When Gösta had gone to Adam’s house to take his fingerprints, the boy had actually mentioned that someone at school had talked about the cool stuff the Frankels owned. That was what had been eating at Gösta’s subconscious, teasing him, eluding him. If only he’d paid more attention. Been more careful. In short, done his job properly. He sighed. It was that special sigh that Gösta had perfected after years of practice. Now it was time for him to put things right as best he could.
He went out to the garage and took the one remaining police vehicle. Martin and Paula had taken the other one to Uddevalla. Forty minutes later he parked outside Strömstad hospital. The receptionist told him that Mattias was in stable condition and then explained how to find the patient’s room.
Gösta took a deep breath before entering the room. No doubt there would be family members with the boy. Gösta didn’t like meeting relatives. It was always so emotional, making it so hard to stick to the task at hand. Yet at times he’d actually surprised both his colleagues and himself by displaying a certain sensitivity when talking to people in traumatic situations. If he’d had the energy and the will-power, he might have been able to utilize that talent in his job and turn it into an asset. Instead, it rarely made an appearance these days, and for him it wasn’t a particularly welcome guest.
‘Did you get him?’ A tall man wearing a suit and tie stood up when he entered the room. He’d had his arms around a sobbing woman. Gösta assumed this must be the mother, judging by her resemblance to the boy in the hospital bed. Or rather, her resemblance to the boy Gösta had interviewed outside the Frankels’ house; the Mattias he was looking at now was unrecognizable. His face was like a swollen, inflamed wound with emerging bruises. His lips were twice the normal size, and he seemed able to use only one eye. The other was swollen shut.
‘When I get hold of that . . . bastard,’ swore Mattias’s father, clenching his fists. He had tears in his eyes, but despite Gösta’s qualms about dealing with family members he resolved to press on and do his job, especially since his feelings of guilt had intensified at the sight of Mattias’s pummelled face.
‘Let the police handle it,’ said Gösta, sitting down in a chair next to them. He introduced himself and then gave Mattias’s parents a stern look to make sure they were listening.
‘We took Per Ringholm down to the station to interview him. He admitted to beating up your son, and he will defin
itely suffer the consequences. At the moment, I don’t know what they may be; that’s up to the prosecutor to decide.’
‘But you’ve got him locked up, right?’ said Mattias’s mother, her lips quivering.
‘Not right now. It’s only in exceptional cases that the prosecutor will take a minor into custody. So he was sent home with his mother while we conduct an investigation. We’ve also brought social services into the picture.’
‘So he was allowed to go home to his mother, while my son lies here and . . .’ said Mattias’s father, his voice breaking. In disbelief he looked from Gösta to his son.
‘For the time being, yes. As I said, there will be consequences, I can promise you that. But I need to have a few words with your son, if possible, to make sure we’ve covered everything.’
Mattias’s parents looked at each other and then nodded.
‘Okay, but only if he feels up to it. He’s not fully conscious all the time. They’ve got him on pain medication.’
‘We’ll let him decide how long he wants to talk,’ said Gösta soothingly as he moved his chair over to the bed. He had some trouble understanding the boy’s slurred words, but in the end he had the whole story confirmed. His account matched what Per had told them.
When he was done questioning Mattias, he turned to the boy’s parents.
‘Is it all right if I take his fingerprints?’
Once again the parents exchanged glances. And again it was Mattias’s father who spoke. ‘All right, go ahead. If it’s necessary to . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence, just looked at his son with tears in his eyes.
‘It’ll only take a minute,’ said Gösta, getting out the finger-printing equipment.
A short time later he was back in his vehicle, looking at the box displaying Mattias’s fingerprints. They might not have any significance to the case. But he’d done his job. At last. That was some small consolation, at least.
The Hidden Child Page 24