Kjell shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I’m going to have to keep this for the time being,’ said Martin, waving the handwritten pages in the air.
‘Of course,’ said Kjell wearily. ‘Go ahead and keep them. I was just planning to burn them otherwise.’
‘By the way, I’ve asked my colleague Gösta to have a few words with you, when it’s convenient. But maybe you and I could have a talk instead?’ Martin carefully placed the letter inside a plastic sleeve and put it to one side.
‘What about?’ asked Kjell.
‘Hans Olavsen. I understand that you’ve being doing some research –’
‘What does that have to do with anything now? My father has confessed to murdering him.’
‘That’s one interpretation, yes. But there are still questions about Olavsen’s death that we’d like to clear up. So if you have any information that you’d like to contribute . . . anything at all . . .’ Martin threw out his hands and leaned back.
‘Have you talked to Erica Falck?’ asked Kjell.
Martin shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we will. Since you happen to be here . . .’
‘Well, I don’t have much to tell you.’ Kjell explained about contacting Eskil Halvorsen, the expert on the Norwegian resistance movement. He still hadn’t heard back from him about Hans Olavsen, and there was a strong likelihood he wouldn’t have any information to offer.
‘Would you like to ring him now, to check if he’s found out anything?’ asked Martin, pointing to the phone on his desk.
Kjell shrugged and took a well-thumbed address book out of his pocket. He leafed through it until he found the page with the yellow Post-it note bearing Eskil Halvorsen’s name and number.
‘I think it will be a waste of time, but since you insist . . .’ Kjell moved the phone closer and punched in the number from his address book. There was a pause before the Norwegian finally picked up. ‘Hello, this is Kjell Ringholm. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I was just wondering if . . . Right, you got the photo. Good. Have you . . .’
Kjell nodded. As he listened, his expression grew more and more alert, which made Martin sit up straighter in his chair, eager to know what the man on the other end of the line was saying.
‘And it’s from that photograph that you . . .? But it’s the wrong name? And his name is actually . . .?’
Kjell snapped his fingers to signal Martin that he needed pen and paper.
Martin reached for his pen holder and managed to knock it over so all the pens fell out, but Kjell picked up one of them, grabbed a report from Martin’s inbox and began feverishly writing on the back of it.
‘So he wasn’t . . . Yes, I realize that this is extremely interesting. For us too, believe me.’
Martin was ready to burst with curiosity. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing the phone.
‘Okay, thank you so much. This puts a new light on the whole matter. Yes. Right. Thank you. Thank you.’
Finally Kjell put down the phone and gave Martin a big smile.
‘I know who he is! I’ll be damned, I know who he is!’
‘Erica!’
Erica heard the front door slam and wondered why Patrik was yelling like that.
‘What is it? Something urgent?’ She went out on to the landing and looked down at him.
‘Come down here – there’s something I need to tell you.’ He motioned excitedly for her to come, and she complied. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, going into the living room.
‘Now I’m really curious,’ she said when they were both sitting on the sofa. She looked at him. ‘So tell me.’
Patrik took a deep breath. ‘Okay. You know how you said you thought there had to be more diaries somewhere?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Erica, suddenly feeling butterflies in her stomach.
‘Well, I ran over to Karin’s place a little while ago.’
‘You did?’ said Erica, surprised.
Patrik waved his hands dismissively. ‘Never mind that. Listen – I happened to mention the diaries to Karin. And she thought she knew where to find more of them!’
Erica looked at him in amazement. ‘How could she possibly know that?’
Patrik told her, and Erica’s face lit up. ‘Oh, of course. But why didn’t she ever say anything?’
‘I have no idea. You’ll have to go over there and ask her yourself,’ replied Patrik. No sooner had he said the words than Erica was on her feet and heading for the front door.
‘We’ll go with you,’ said Patrik, picking up Maja from the floor.
‘Okay, but hurry,’ called Erica, already halfway out the door with her car keys in her hand.
A short time later Patrik’s mother, Kristina, opened her door, looking startled.
‘Hello, what a surprise. What are you doing here?’
‘We just thought we’d drop by for a moment,’ said Erica, exchanging glances with Patrik.
‘Sure, of course. Shall I make us some coffee?’ asked Kristina, still surprised.
Erica waited impatiently for Kristina to finish making the coffee and sit down with them at the table before she blurted out:
‘Remember that I told you that I’d found Mamma’s diaries up in the attic? And that I’ve been reading through them, hoping to find out more about who Elsy Moström really was?’
‘Yes, of course I remember you telling me about that,’ said Kristina, avoiding her eyes.
‘When I was here last time, I think I also said that I thought it was strange she stopped writing in 1944 and there were no more diaries.’
‘Yes,’ said Kristina, her eyes fixed on the tabletop.
‘Well, today Patrik had coffee with Karin over at her place, and he happened to mention the diaries and described what they looked like. And she had a clear memory of seeing similar books here.’ Erica paused to study her mother-in-law. ‘According to Karin, you asked her to get a tablecloth out of the linen cabinet, and at the very back of the cabinet she remembers seeing several blue notebooks with the word “Diary” on the cover. She assumed they were your old diaries and didn’t say anything, but today when Patrik mentioned Mamma’s diaries, well . . . she made the connection. And so my question is,’ Erica went on gently, ‘why didn’t you tell me?’
Kristina continued to stare down at the table. Patrik tried not to look at either of them, focusing his attention on eating buns with Maja. Finally Kristina got up without saying a word and left the room. Erica watched her go, hardly daring to breathe. She heard a cupboard door open and close, and a moment later Kristina came back to the kitchen. She was holding three blue notebooks. Exactly like the ones Erica had at home.
‘I promised Elsy to take care of these. She didn’t want you or Anna to see them. But I assume . . .’ Kristina hesitated, then handed them over. ‘I assume that there comes a time when things should be revealed. And it feels as though this is the time. I think that Elsy would have given her consent.’
Erica took the diaries and ran her hand over the cover of the one on top.
‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at Kristina. ‘Do you know what she wrote in these books?’
Kristina hesitated, not sure what to say.
‘I haven’t read them. But I know a lot about the things that I assume Elsy would have put in those diaries.’
‘I’m going to go into the living room and read them,’ said Erica.
She was trembling as she sat down on the sofa. Slowly she opened to the first page of the top diary, and began to read. Her eyes raced over the lines, over the familiar handwriting, as she read about her mother’s fate, and subsequently her own. With growing surprise and agitation, she read of her mother’s love affair with Hans Olavsen, and how Elsy had discovered that she was pregnant. In the third diary she came to Hans’s departure for Norway. And his promise. Erica’s hands were shaking harder now, as if she were experiencing her mother’s rising panic when days and weeks passed with no word from him. And when Erica came to the last pages, she sta
rted to cry and couldn’t stop. Through her tears she read what her mother had written in her elegant script:
Today I took the train to Borlänge. Mother stood at the door and waved, but didn’t come with me. It’s getting harder to hide my condition. And I don’t want my mother to bear the shame. It’s so hard for me to do this. But I have prayed to God to give me the strength to see it through. The strength to give away the child that I’ve never met, but already love so much, so very much . . .
Chapter 46
Borlänge 1945
He never came back. He had kissed her goodbye, told her that he would be back soon, and left. And she had waited. At first feeling confident and secure, then with a slight pang of uneasiness, which over time surged into an overwhelming panic. Because he never did come back. He broke his promise to her. Betrayed her and their child. And she had been so sure of him. She had never even questioned the promise that he’d made to her, taking it for granted that he loved her as much as she loved him. What a stupid, naïve girl she had been. How many girls had been fooled by the same story?
When it was no longer possible to hide her pregnancy, she had turned to her mother. With bowed head, unable to meet Hilma’s eyes, she had told her everything. That she had allowed herself to be duped, that she had believed his promises, and that she was now carrying his child. At first her mother hadn’t said a word. A dead, icy silence settled over the kitchen where they were sitting, and only then had fear truly gripped Elsy’s heart. Because deep inside she had been hoping that her mother would rock her in her arms, and say: ‘Dear child, everything will be all right. We’ll work things out.’ The mother Elsy had had before her father died would have done that. She would have possessed the strength to love her daughter in spite of the shame. But part of Hilma had died with her husand, and the part that remained was not strong enough.
Without saying a word, she had packed a suitcase for Elsy, putting in all the essentials. And then she put her sixteen-year-old daughter on a train to Borlänge, sending her off to stay with Hilma’s sister who had a farm there. Hilma couldn’t even bring herself to go with her to the station; they had said a brief goodbye in the hall, before she turned her back on Elsy and went into the kitchen. The story everyone in town would hear was that Elsy had gone to attend a home economics school.
Five months passed. In spite of the fact that her belly grew with each week that went by, she had worked as hard as anyone else on the farm. From morning to night she had toiled with all the tasks assigned to her, while the aching in her back got worse from the kicking in her womb. Sometimes she wanted to hate the baby. But she couldn’t. It was a part of her and a part of Hans – and even now she couldn’t feel true hatred towards him. So how could she hate a creature who united the two of them? But everything had already been arranged. The child would be taken away from her right after the birth, to be given up for adoption. There was no other way, said Aunt Edith. Her husband, Anton, had taken care of all the practical details, muttering all the while how shameful it was for his wife to have a niece who had slept with the first guy to come sniffing around. Elsy couldn’t bring herself to contradict him. She accepted the reproaches without protest and without being able to offer any explanation. It was hard to argue with the fact that Hans had deserted her. In spite of his promise.
The labour pains started early one morning. At first she thought it was just the usual backache that had woken her. But then the pain got worse, coming and going, but growing stronger. After lying there, tossing and turning, for two hours, she finally realized what was happening and managed to roll out of bed. With her hands pressed to the small of her back, she had gone to Edith and Anton’s bedroom and hesitantly awakened her aunt. That was followed by frantic activity. She was ordered back to bed, and the eldest daughter of the house was sent to fetch the midwife. Water was set to boil on the stove, and towels were taken out of the linen cupboard. Lying in bed, Elsy could feel her terror growing.
After ten hours the pain was unbearable. The midwife had arrived hours ago and rather roughly examined her. She was stern and unfriendly, making it very clear what she thought of unmarried girls who got themselves pregnant. No one had a kind word or a smile for Elsy as she lay in bed, believing she was going to die. Each time a wave of pain washed over her, she would grip the bed frame and clench her teeth so as not to scream. It felt like someone was slicing her down the middle. At first she was able to rest a bit between the contractions, to catch her breath and try to recoup her strength. But as the hours went on the contractions started coming so close together that she never had a chance to rest. The thought came again and again: Now I’m going to die.
She must have said the words out loud, because through the fog of pain she saw the midwife glare at her angrily and say: ‘Stop making such a fuss. You’re the one who got yourself into this mess, so you can just get through it without complaining. Think about that, my girl.’
Elsy had no strength left to protest. She gripped the bed frame so hard that her knuckles turned white, and then a new level of pain raced through her abdomen and into her legs. She had never known that such pain was even possible. It was everywhere, penetrating into every fibre, every cell of her body. And now she was starting to get tired. She had fought the pain for so long that part of her just wanted to give up, to sink down and let the pain take over and do whatever it liked with her. But she knew that she couldn’t allow that to happen. It was her child, and Hans’s, that wanted to come out, and she would give birth to this baby if it was the last thing she ever did.
A new type of pain started merging with the contractions, that were so familiar by now. She felt a great pressure, and the midwife nodded with satisfaction to Elsy’s aunt, who stood nearby.
‘It will be over soon,’ she said, pressing on Elsy’s stomach. ‘You need to bear down with all your might when I tell you to, and that baby will be here very soon.’
Elsy didn’t reply but she heard what the midwife had said and was waiting for what would happen next. The feeling that she needed to bear down increased, and she took a deep breath.
‘All right, now push with all your might,’ the midwife commanded, and Elsy pressed her chin to her chest and strained as hard as she could. It felt as though nothing happened, but the midwife gave her a curt nod to indicate that she was doing it right. ‘Wait until the next contraction,’ the woman said harshly.
Elsy felt the pressure building once more, and when it was at its worst, she was again ordered to bear down. This time she felt something loosen – it was hard to describe, but it was as if something gave way.
‘The head is out now, Elsy. Just one more contraction, and . . .’
Elsy closed her eyes for a moment, but all she could see was Hans. She didn’t have the strength to grieve for him right now, so she opened her eyes again.
‘Now!’ said the midwife as she stood between Elsy’s legs. With her last ounce of strength, Elsy pressed her chin to her chest and bore down with her knees drawn up.
Something wet and slippery slid out of her, and she fell back, exhausted, on to the sweat-drenched sheet. Her first feeling was relief. Relief that all the hours of torment were over. She was worn out in a way that she’d never felt before; every part of her body was utterly exhausted, and she couldn’t move even an inch – until she heard the cry. An angry, shrill cry that made her struggle to prop herself up on her elbows to see where it was coming from.
She sobbed when she caught sight of him. He was . . . perfect. Sticky and bloody, and angry at being out in the cold, but perfect. Elsy fell back on the pillows when she realized that this was the first and last time she would ever see him. The midwife cut the umbilical cord and carefully cleaned him off with a washcloth. Then she dressed him in a tiny, embroidered infant’s shirt that Edith had provided. No one paid any attention to Elsy, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the boy. Her heart felt as if it would burst with love, and her eyes were hungry to take in every detail of him. Not until Edith made a move to ta
ke him out of the room did she manage to speak.
‘I want to hold him!’
‘That’s not advisable, under the circumstances,’ said the midwife angrily, motioning for the aunt to go. But Edith hesitated.
‘Please, just let me hold him. Just for a minute. Then you can take him away.’ Elsy’s tone of voice was so persuasive that her aunt came over and placed the baby in Elsy’s arms. She held him carefully as she looked into his eyes. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she whispered, rocking him gently.
‘You’re bleeding on his shirt,’ said the midwife, looking annoyed.
‘I have more shirts,’ said Edith, giving the woman a look that silenced her.
Elsy couldn’t get enough of looking at him. He felt warm and heavy in her arms, and she stared with fascination at his little fingers with the perfect, tiny fingernails.
‘He’s a fine boy,’ said Edith, standing next to the bed.
‘He looks like his father,’ said Elsy, smiling as the baby held on to her finger.
‘You need to hand him over now. He has to be fed,’ said the midwife, taking the boy out of Elsy’s arms. Her first instinct was to resist, to grab him back and never let him go. But that moment passed, and the midwife began hastily pulling the bloody shirt off the infant and putting him into a clean one. Then she handed him to Edith, who, after a last look at Elsy, carried him out of the room.
At that moment, as she looked at her son for the last time, Elsy felt something break deep inside her heart. She did not know how she would survive such pain. And as she lay there in her sweaty, bloodied bed with an empty womb and empty arms, she decided never to subject herself to those sorts of feelings again. Never, ever. With tears running down her face, she made herself that promise while the midwife roughly helped her with the afterbirth.
Chapter 47
‘Martin!’
‘Paula!’
They both shouted at the exact same time, each on their way to the other’s office with urgent news. Now they stood in the corridor, staring at one another, their cheeks flushed. Martin was the first to pull himself together.
The Hidden Child Page 43