The noise continued; Lisa could hear planks of wood creaking and breaking at Villa Kloss. The air was filled with great clouds of dust. She pictured a Roman warship out in the Sound, firing enormous rocks at the island. A cloud of black grenades.
‘Come on!’ a voice yelled in her ear.
A definite order. Paulina was no longer pressed against her on the ground; she was on her feet, tugging at Lisa’s arms.
The crashing had stopped, but Lisa still wanted to stay where she was.
‘Move!’ Paulina insisted.
In the end, Lisa obeyed; she got to her feet and staggered north along the inlet, afraid of more flying stones. However, they hadn’t reached this far; in the moonlight she could see that most had landed in the garden at Villa Kloss, and on Kent’s house.
Lisa held her breath and stumbled on. Paulina was a shadow moving determinedly beside her, pressing on.
‘What happened?’ Lisa asked.
There was a smell of burning in the air now, and in the distance Lisa could hear the roof of Kent’s house beginning to collapse as several load-bearing beams cracked under the weight of the rocks.
She couldn’t see a great deal; the electricity seemed to have gone off all the way along the inlet. The village was in darkness, and she tripped over a root or a stone on the ground and almost fell; she couldn’t even see her own shoes.
The explosion was still reverberating, but perhaps it was only inside Lisa’s head.
‘What happened?’ she asked again.
The shadow beside her uttered one single word with great calmness, as if she had control over the chaos surrounding them: ‘Ammonal.’
The New Country, April 1998
The Soviet Union has collapsed and Russia is an independent country, but it is a country that Aron Fredh does not recognize. Everyone in this new country is becoming more and more obsessed by money, or so it seems. Nightclubs have opened in the area around Lubyanka Prison where he used to work; men who shun the light park their black Mercedes nearby and step out with giggling teenage girls on their arm. Capitalist gangsters who would never have dared to show their faces in the days of the Soviet Union now go out of their way to be seen.
Aron and Mila’s daughter is twenty-five years old, a dark-haired beauty who still lives at home. She samples the nightlife of Moscow sometimes, goes to nightclubs run by Westerners, but returns home disappointed. She is bored by the nouveau riche and their courtiers. Aron is glad, because this new Russia is a dangerous place, where capitalism is king and none of the old rules seems to apply. There are no new rules either. Young men are shot dead, girls are raped.
He rarely goes out. It is too stressful; there are too many big cars. Moscow is no longer his city, and that makes him sad. He longs for Öland, for the old world, where everything was so simple.
Mila doesn’t go out either, but for different reasons. She can hardly breathe these days. Her lungs are worse than ever. Some days, she doesn’t even get out of bed. Their home is filled with the sound of coughing and, eventually, Aron manages to get his wife to see a doctor, who sends her to a specialist clinic at the Pirogov Hospital.
She undergoes a series of tests and X-rays. The doctors confer in whispers. Finally, a consultant at the hospital explains the gravity of the situation.
‘I expect your wife has been a heavy smoker?’ he says to Aron when they are alone.
‘Definitely not. But she was involved in a serious accident when she was young – a huge explosion involving poisonous gases, and a terrible fire.’
The doctor nods; now he understands. ‘I’m afraid the diagnosis is incurable emphysema.’
‘Incurable …?’ Aron says.
‘She needs oxygen,’ the doctor explains. ‘You have to make sure that she has a supply of oxygen, and the best possible care. Private care … You know how things are these days.’
Aron knows that private care in the new land costs money, like everything else. Lots of money. He has heard tales of ambulance drivers demanding hard cash from the sick and injured.
‘What about overseas?’ he says quietly. ‘In … Sweden, for example?’
‘They have excellent health care over there, and it could well be cheaper, but of course that only applies to Swedish nationals,’ the doctor explains.
Aron goes home. Mila has been given her verdict. He thinks about Sweden, and Swedish health care. It’s free to Swedes, no doubt to their families as well. Perhaps it is time to go back to Öland.
There is another reason why Aron is keen to get away. The archives from the days of Stalinism are being opened, and citizens of the former Soviet Union are trawling through mountains of documents, searching for the names of victims of the Great Terror. And for the names of those few executioners who are still alive.
Aron begins to think about changing his identity for a second time. Leaving Vladimir Jegerov behind. Going home to the old country, and taking Mila with him.
But he needs help. Someone who can confirm who he really is.
It is much easier to make overseas telephone calls from Russia now; there is no need to fill in any forms – but Aron does not have any numbers to call. He has no idea which members of his family are still alive.
However, one evening he picks up the phone to try to find out more. A helpful Russian operator finds someone by the name of Greta Fredh on Öland. She is living in a residential home for senior citizens, but she does have her own telephone.
The operator puts him through. He hears the phone ringing out, and after a moment a woman’s voice says, ‘Greta Fredh.’
The voice is old and weak, but Aron recognizes his sister. He begins to explain who he is, stumbling over the Swedish words and phrases.
Greta doesn’t remember him. She doesn’t know who he is. Against the background of a faint rushing sound, he tries to explain. That he emigrated to another country, that he is thinking of coming home. To Rödtorp, the place where they grew up, by the water between the island and the mainland.
Doesn’t she remember?
There is only silence on the other end of the line.
‘Aron?’ his sister says at long last. ‘Is that really you?’
‘Yes, Greta. I’m coming home. To our croft.’
‘Our croft?’ Greta says.
‘Yes. The Kloss family own land – lots of land – and we’re related to them.’
‘Kloss …’ Greta says. ‘That’s right, Veronica is coming to the home to give a talk this summer. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Tell her you’re a relative,’ Aron says.
‘I will.’
Aron thinks his sister is beginning to understand but realizes that her mind works slowly and that her memories are muddled.
‘It’s coffee time now,’ Greta says. ‘Bye, then, Aron. Goodbye.’
He puts down the phone, his hand trembling.
Mila is gazing at him from her bed. ‘What about your other relatives in Sweden?’ she says. ‘The Kloss family?’
The Kloss family. Aron is indeed related to them; he is Edvard’s son, even if his paternity was never acknowledged – it was such a closely guarded secret that Sven never spoke of it, and Aron’s mother, Astrid, only ever hinted at it. And Edvard died rather than admit it.
But could the younger members of the family help out? Perhaps.
He nods to his wife and picks up the phone again.
A further conversation with the international operator reveals that there are several individuals with the surname Kloss who still live on the island of Öland. One of them, Veronica, also has a home in Stockholm. She was the person Greta mentioned.
Aron is given her address and telephone number, and glances over at Mila. He has to make the call. He keys in the number with his index finger – his trigger finger – and waits.
After a while, a young man answers. His name is Urban Kloss, and it turns out that he is Veronica’s son. He understands Aron’s Swedish and confirms that this is the right family. They come from Öland,
and spend the summers there.
But he doesn’t seem to have any idea who Aron Fredh is.
Aron asks him to fetch his mother. Once more, he listens to the faint rushing sound as he waits. After a moment, he hears the cool voice of a woman: ‘Veronica Kloss.’
Aron clears his throat and introduces himself, a little hesitantly, in Swedish. He explains who he is, where he is calling from.
‘We’re related,’ he says.
‘Related?’
As Aron goes on talking, his Swedish slowly improves. He tells Veronica about Rödtorp and the shore. About Edvard Kloss and Aron’s mother. About travelling to Stockholm with Sven, then on to Leningrad. About the journey north, and the hard labour. He stops at that point; he doesn’t want to tell her any more.
‘But we are related,’ he says again. ‘I’m Edvard’s son.’
Veronica has listened in silence; now she takes a deep breath. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
There is a click, and the connection is broken.
That’s it. Aron sits there, lost for words, still holding the receiver. He looks at Mila, then back at the phone.
‘She’s gone,’ he says. ‘I suppose it all sounded a bit crazy …’
Mila nods. ‘In that case, we’ll go to Stockholm at Easter,’ she says. ‘When the air is a little warmer. We will go and visit your relative, young Weronikaya, so that you can speak to each other face to face.’
‘Veronica. It’s just Veronica,’ Aron says.
He’s not sure about this, but Mila is determined. ‘Veronica, then. You can take your papers and the old snuff box with you, to prove who you are. That you are her father’s brother.’
‘Her father’s stepbrother,’ Aron says quietly.
‘You’re family,’ Mila says firmly. ‘We need their help; they have to give the croft and the shore back to you.’
Lisa
Paulina led Lisa on through the darkness by the shore, away from the shattered ridge, without stopping. Northwards, past juniper bushes and boathouses. They had almost reached the stone wall surrounding the campsite.
Lisa was expecting Paulina to head for her caravan, but instead she turned off towards the road. She stopped a few metres away from the roadside and waited.
Lisa looked at her. ‘What’s ammonal?’ she said.
‘Dynamite buried underground. He’d dug out a channel and placed the dynamite in it.’
Lisa blinked. She had so many questions it was difficult to choose one.
Paulina was looking south towards the dark Sound. They could still hear the throb of a motorboat engine, but couldn’t see it.
Then came the sound of another engine, somewhat closer this time, and Lisa saw two headlights approaching.
A dark-coloured car was moving slowly along the coast road, coming from the south. It was probably her imagination, but she thought Paulina was smiling at the car.
‘It’s over, Lisa,’ she said.
Paulina was strangely calm after everything that had happened; she seemed so different.
Lisa stared at her. ‘Who are you?’
‘I don’t come from Lithuania,’ Paulina said, still watching the car. ‘I’m from Russia.’
The dark-blue Ford stopped beside them, the engine still running. Paulina turned to Lisa and took her trembling hand. ‘It’s time to leave Öland,’ she said. ‘Go home, Lisa.’
Then she walked away. Lisa watched as Paulina covered the short distance to the coast road. The driver of the Ford had reached over and opened the passenger door.
Paulina got in.
Lisa could see by the interior light that the old man was sitting at the wheel. Aron Fredh. He smiled wearily at Paulina as she sat down beside him and gently stroked his cheek.
The car swung across the coast road. It drove past the restaurant and disappeared into the night.
Lisa was left alone by the campsite, where people had begun to emerge from their tents and caravans to gaze up at the damaged ridge to the south, murmuring to each other in their confusion.
She opened her right hand; Paulina had given her something as she was leaving. It was a thick roll of notes. Swedish banknotes.
She closed her hand around it and thought about Silas, her father. Silas would want this money. Silas needed this money. And that need would never end.
But she was tired of giving her father money to feed his drug habit.
She slipped the roll of notes into her pocket and set off. Slowly at first, then faster. She went to her caravan and packed up her clothes, her records and her guitar, then she did what Paulina had told her to do – left the island. She wanted to get home before the police turned up.
The Homecomer
Aron stopped the car on the way to the main road, and he and Paulina changed places. He looked back, down towards the inlet.
Everything was in darkness. His head was pounding after the explosion, but at least his hearing seemed to be intact.
‘The cairn the Kloss family built is gone now,’ he said in Russian. ‘And their home and their boathouse. All gone … We’ve done what we came to do.’
Paulina looked at him. ‘I thought you were dead, Papa. You were so close to the bunker, and I …’
‘I always survive,’ Aron said tersely.
Paulina nodded. ‘And what about him?’
‘Him’, that was all she said. Aron had managed to meet up with his daughter in secret a few times over the summer, but Paulina had never mentioned Kent or Veronica Kloss by name.
‘He’s gone,’ Aron said.
‘But she survived,’ Paulina said. ‘She was down in the launch, waiting for him to bring down your body. He was going to shoot you … that’s what they’d planned.’
‘She survived? Veronica Kloss?’
‘Yes. I heard the engine afterwards … the boat was moving away.’
She started the car and set off. Not south towards the mainland, but north, where there was no bridge. Towards the furthest point of the island.
They didn’t meet any other cars, and when the road narrowed and the pine forest began Paulina turned on to a dirt track leading through the trees and switched off the headlights. It was almost two o’clock. Aron was exhausted, and every bone in his body was aching.
Paulina had cleared out her caravan and put her bags in the back seat earlier that evening. She opened one, took out two blankets and reclined the seats. They settled down in the darkness, and silence fell inside the car.
‘We couldn’t let the children come to any harm,’ Paulina said after a while. ‘You do understand that, don’t you, Papa?’
Aron didn’t respond at first. It had been his daughter’s idea to remove the boys from Villa Kloss before the cairn was blown up. She had crept in and placed cloths soaked in chloroform over their faces once they had fallen asleep, and she had given Aron the alarm code.
‘I know,’ he said eventually.
The children, he thought. As Vlad, he had harmed many young people in the thirties. Eighteen-year-olds, seventeen-year-olds, perhaps even younger. He had interrogated them, beaten them, sent them off to the camps without turning a hair. Or he had made them orphans.
‘What did you do with them?’ Paulina asked.
‘Who?’
‘The Kloss children.’
Aron closed his eyes and lay back. ‘I took them across the island and locked them in a boathouse.’
Paulina nodded. ‘We’ll phone someone in the morning and let them know,’ she said, then added, ‘My friend made it, too.’
‘What friend?’
‘Her name is Lisa.’
Silence fell once more; the forest was peaceful. After a few minutes, Aron could hear his daughter’s calm, even breathing, but he couldn’t get to sleep himself; his body was still throbbing and aching.
He must have dropped off eventually, because the sun was in his face when he opened his eyes, its rays shining between the tree trunks. Another glorious summer’s day. Paulina shifted slightly beside him, b
ut she was still asleep.
Aron blinked in the bright light, surprised that he had woken up. Slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt.
Before long, his daughter woke behind the wheel. They exchanged a few quiet words, then she started the car and they continued their journey north across the island.
In Byxelkrok, they saw the sea again, and stopped at the harbour hotel for a cup of coffee. The waitress barely glanced at them.
The police might well be looking for them in the south; there might be patrol cars all over Borgholm; they might even have closed the bridge – but here in the north, no one was interested in them.
There was a telephone kiosk down by the harbour in Byxelkrok; Paulina drove up to it and looked at her father. ‘Are you going to call her now, Papa, and tell her where the children are?’
Aron nodded and got out of the car. He ambled over to the kiosk, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, but he didn’t make the call.
Instead, he turned his back on Paulina and opened his jacket with his free hand. There was a small tear in the fabric, stained dark red, but the wound was no longer bleeding. Not much, anyway.
It had taken several hours after the explosion for him to realize what had happened, but when he woke at dawn Aron had known that the throbbing in his belly wasn’t normal. Silently, in order to avoid waking his daughter, he had unbuttoned his shirt and discovered a small, narrow wound in his right side.
Kent Kloss hadn’t missed with his first shot after all.
He had a first-aid box in the car, and had dressed the wound with adhesive tape and a clean bandage to stop the bleeding, but his guts were hurting, and when he pressed with his fingers he could feel a piece of lead inside him.
Aron had been shot, for the first time in his life. It was almost funny, but he had to keep it to himself.
Paulina mustn’t find out.
He put down the phone and slowly made his way back to the car. ‘All done,’ he said.
The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) Page 37