by Sara Blaedel
But Camilla had ignored all his objections. She talked about Sofie, who had helped her mother die several years earlier, Sofie’s husband’s attitude, and the breakup that followed their dispute. She had been every bit as insistent as he had been dismissive.
“Now the woman’s dead,” she’d said. “And I would very much like to show our readers what caused Sofie Bygmann to leave Denmark. I would also like to take advantage of all the attention on her murder to focus on assisted suicide, which is illegal in Denmark. The authorities here oppose it, even though seventy percent of the Danish population apparently support euthanasia.”
She had done her best to sway him, and she didn’t really know what she’d said that had convinced him to squeeze her into his schedule the next day.
“We have about an hour,” he said, after shaking her hand. He exuded calm; he looked relaxed, serene. He knocked on a door, opened it, stuck his head inside, and said something she didn’t catch. Then he held the door open for her.
“This is where it takes place,” he explained. He introduced her to an older couple who volunteered at the clinic.
“Elin and Werner greet people when they arrive and get them settled in. It could be said that they are the dying person’s hosts.”
The woman was replacing tea light candles in small holders, and the man smoothed a comforter before spreading a yellow blanket over the recliner bed.
Camilla considered bringing out her notebook, but she decided it wouldn’t be necessary. She could remember this room.
It looked like a living room with a bed, plus a table with chairs, a sofa, and a high-backed armchair. Christmas decorations lay scattered around, even though it was well into January. Small elves, a team of reindeer. A small crib and bands of angels. Camilla remembered hearing that Christmas decorations in this part of Europe traditionally weren’t taken away until after Easter—in other words, it wasn’t a sign of a careless staff. She took note of the yellow walls, the paintings, a CD player on a small bureau. Books, magazines.
“It’s up to the people dying if they want to lie in bed or sit on the sofa or an armchair,” the doctor said. “Their conditions can vary widely. Some prefer to sit up, but most would rather lie down, because they simply fall asleep after drinking the lethal dosage.”
His guileless manner suggested that fear or anxiety about death was completely foreign inside the clinic. Camilla nodded and said she was ready to move on.
“Nowadays I spend all my time doing paperwork—there’s a mountain of it involved with every death. But down here, the dying person is greeted and settled in to the room you’ve just seen. We have another room nearly identical to it, sometimes it’s also in use. My office is upstairs.”
They walked down the hallway toward the stairs. The floor tiles were dark, and nature photographs in small, dark frames adorned the walls. Nothing in the house gave the impression of it being a hospice or private hospital. It felt like a home to Camilla, one that someone had just moved out of without taking anything along.
His office was in the gable end of the house. A large window stretched across the entire wall. The sunlit room was filled with loose-leaf binders, journals, and stacks of thick folders. An old IBM computer stood on the desk beside a typewriter—it had been ages since she’d seen one of those.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, and turned to the door when Elin walked in with a thermos and two cups.
Camilla had just brought her notebook out when Dr. Sigmundt leaned forward and asked what had happened to the Danish woman who had been killed. He looked concerned. “I don’t know, of course, if Sofie Bygmann is a common name in Denmark. But a woman with that name worked for us once. I truly hope she’s not the victim.”
She put the notebook down and stared at him. “A Sofie Bygmann worked here at the clinic?”
“Yes, many years ago, shortly after we started. She showed up unannounced at my office in Zurich. It was a late afternoon, I remember, the day before my daughter’s birthday, and my wife was angry because I couldn’t come. The whole family was there to celebrate. But we were expecting a couple from England, and the clinic was very new, we had only a few volunteers. I had to be there. Sofie offered to help, she wanted to work as a volunteer, and the timing couldn’t have been better. At first she couldn’t be there alone, of course, but I began training her at once. Besides all the practical details, someone has to make sure the terminally ill person doesn’t feel alone, if there’s no family there. And Sofie was extremely good at that.”
“I had no idea she’d worked here,” Camilla said.
He pulled open a drawer and brought out a photo of Sofie as a young woman. Her hair was up in a bun; the end of the pencil stuck through it was visible. She was shielding her eyes from the sun and smiling at the camera. A tiny baby lay on her arm.
“Is that her?” He sounded hesitant, pensive.
It was Sofie, Camilla was certain, but she studied the photo a few seconds before nodding. His expression fell, and he turned and gazed out the window while absorbing the grim news.
“She worked here until the little one was two or three years old, but we kept in touch with each other after she left.” His wistfulness disappeared. “I even received a Christmas card from her in December.”
“Is this her daughter?” Camilla asked. She felt she was being meddlesome, but he simply nodded.
“It turned out she was pregnant when she arrived,” he said, his meek smile fatherly yet lenient. “She was more surprised than anyone when she realized why she was beginning to bulge. We have an apartment for guests over our garage at home, so she moved in there. My wife took care of the baby when Sofie was at the clinic. She was very well liked, and the families were always pleased with her. Once in a while people come back to us. For example, one woman was with her husband when he was dying. A year later she came down with a fatal illness and chose to return. It was touching to see how happy she was when she learned that Sofie would be sitting with her.”
“So what made Sofie leave?”
He sat for a while and looked out the window again. Snow had turned to sleet.
“I don’t really know. I think it was just time for her to move on. She’d inherited quite a bit of money from her parents, and she looked on her time here as a sort of leave of absence. We’re so pleased that volunteers spend their time and energy helping us. No one has to stay any certain length of time here, though of course we can’t suddenly be without help. Sofie’s daughter was old enough for her to travel fairly easily, too.”
Camilla nodded. Another piece of the puzzle surrounding Sofie’s disappearance was in place now. This was where she lived in the years between Rome and England.
“Elin and Werner also worked at the clinic back then. Our organization relies on many strong people, both those who make sure everything operates smoothly, and those who take care of the administrative details. As I said, every single death requires a lot of work.”
“Could you elaborate on that?”
“Do you want me to go through the whole process, or just what takes place here at the clinic?” He looked dejected again as he fidgeted with Sofie’s photo.
“The whole process, if you would. I’d also like to know how you decide who gets to come here. Can anybody who is tired of life contact you and set up an appointment?”
He sighed, but though he obviously had answered that question countless times, he didn’t seem annoyed. “Not everyone is approved; far from it. We’re not here to kill people. Our doctor evaluates every single application, and, of course, it’s not enough to simply be tired of life. Our country’s laws must be obeyed. We are here to help people who have very good reasons to leave this world. We give them a dignified death.”
“The ones approved are in extreme pain, or have some terrible fatal illness that robs them of their dignity, or soon will, is that right?”
“They must be diagnosed with a fatal illness before we can help them. We also have to be certain it’s what they want, a
nd that they’re in their right minds when they decide.” He straightened up and stuck the photo back in his desk drawer, then pushed an information sheet over to Camilla.
“First they enroll,” he said. “That costs about five hundred Swiss francs. We have to be convinced that people are serious when they contact us. Then they have to send an application in, with a copy of their medical records, birth certificate, proof of residency, and a valid passport, to make sure the person is who he or she claims to be. After that, they pay a deposit of four thousand Swiss francs. This is returned if they aren’t approved.”
Camilla nodded and wrote everything down.
“We handle all the formalities involving the local authorities here in Switzerland. Those who apply aren’t involved in that. But this administrative work is expensive. Also there are things to be taken care of after the death.”
She asked him to wait a moment while she brought out her phone; she wanted to record him to make sure she got everything. “And when everything is approved, what happens next?”
“Before applicants arrive, we ask them to write two personal letters. One about their lives, their life histories, a little bit about who they are, and the other about their illness and how it has progressed. And when we have the letters and the doctor’s approval, they make the final payment of nine thousand Swiss francs. Then we set a date.”
“So at that point everything has been planned down to the smallest detail?”
He nodded. “But once in a while we have to change to an earlier date, if the client’s condition worsens.”
“Do they arrive on the day of the suicide?” Camilla could hardly imagine how the time leading up to the day must be for those about to die.
“Usually they come three or four days in advance. But some choose to wait until the day before. It varies, depending on the client’s situation and wishes. They know in advance what time they should arrive. If a person comes alone, we can arrange for them to be picked up. Once in a while a contact accompanies them, usually someone who has been involved before and knows the process. Elin and Werner greet them, get them settled in, and then wait out in the kitchen while the family says their good-byes. If there is a family.”
“Do you also arrange the travel and the hotel?” Camilla felt uncomfortable at the idea of a package tour: a one-way ticket to death. Suicide vacation.
“The client has to arrange for transportation and hotel, at their own expense.”
He asked her if she would like a cup of coffee. Camilla shook her head. There was something surrealistic about listening to him explain the details involved in the suicides, while knowing one of their clients would be arriving soon. Clients had to pay over more than thirteen thousand Swiss francs, plus transportation and hotel. Camilla tabulated in her head, doing a quick conversion to Danish kroners. In other words, not everyone could afford an assisted suicide.
“When they arrive, we have papers for them to sign, then the client is asked several times if he or she is certain of their decision. We also ask some very simple questions, such as, do you know your name, where you are, the date of your birth. The relatives in the room are required to give their names, addresses, and telephone numbers, which we forward on to the police.”
Camilla changed her mind and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“When they are ready, a video camera is turned on so the authorities know they have chosen to die. If the family is there, this is when they say good-bye. Sometimes all of them stay there to the end, sometimes only a spouse stays. When people come by themselves, Elin sits with them if they want her to.”
“How does it take place?” she asked.
“The terminally ill person drinks a sedative. The lethal dose of sleeping medicine is then ingested within fifteen minutes, to make sure it stays down.”
“And they take the lethal medicine themselves?”
He nodded. “That’s essential. If they can’t drink it, a tube is used. All they have to do is squeeze a soft plastic bag and press the fluid into their body. If they are paralyzed, we have a special gadget where a switch is placed in the mouth, and they bite down on a button that releases the medicine.”
He leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands on his desk, and looked straight at Camilla. “We don’t kill people. We help sick people die with dignity. Most of them choose to hear music while they fade out. We have a CD player, and they can bring their own music. Some people also bring flowers. Or something that makes them feel secure. Something nice that they’re used to. People prepare themselves for this, they look forward to it. They’re here because they’ve made their decision, and death is a relief in comparison to the alternative.”
“How long does it take after they drink the medicine?”
“They fall asleep within a minute. After that, it takes about ten minutes. It can vary a bit.”
“And then you call the local authorities?”
He shook his head. “No, first the relatives are given all the time they need. Only after they’ve left the house do we call the police to report we have what we call a free death, or an assisted suicide. The police and a doctor arrive. We have to go through this procedure. Then our undertaker arrives and takes care of the cremation and the urn, and sends the remains home.”
“So you take care of that?” She’d imagined the families themselves had to arrange the transportation of the corpse.
He nodded and smiled, as if he’d read her thoughts. “This is one of the things our clients pay for.”
The sound of voices came from below. Dr. Sigmundt stood up and apologized for having no more time. Camilla thanked him profusely for meeting her on such short notice. He asked her to keep him informed of any breakthrough in the investigation of Sofie’s murder. They walked out to the stairs.
“I’m very sorry to hear it’s our Sofie who died,” he said. “I had a bad feeling about it when you called. But I feel terrible for her daughter, now that she has no parents.”
“So there was no contact with the father?”
“I asked her once, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I admit thinking that she probably didn’t know who the father was, she never talked about him. Maybe she was one of those women who want a child so much but could never get pregnant.”
They passed by the room where the next client was getting ready to leave this world. Low voices mumbled behind the closed door. Just as they were about to say good-bye, a middle-aged woman in a brown wool cardigan opened the door and walked out. She was pale, but she didn’t look like someone close to breaking down. Classical music streamed out the doorway, and Camilla heard the sound of weak laughter inside. The woman returned from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
For a moment it seemed she was about to explain, but Dr. Sigmundt simply smiled and stepped aside to let her by. The door was open long enough for Camilla to see a man lying in bed with his face turned to the door. Nothing in his expression led her to think he was afraid about what was going to happen. He was simply waiting for the woman. A younger woman stood beside the bed, and another man sat in the armchair. Candles were lit, the curtains closed.
It looked like a living room furnished with a sickbed. Nothing was sterile or hospital-like about the mood.
“People have very different ideas about their final good-byes. Some people drink a glass of wine together, others want it over with as quickly as possible. Occasionally it’s gloomy and depressing, but most of the time it’s a relief for the person dying, and the end isn’t so sad.”
The door closed, and they stood for a moment in silence.
Outside in the snow, Camilla thought about the people who soon would be saying good-bye in there. Then the man would be dead, and in an hour or two the family would be leaving. The hallway would be filled with police, the doctor, and the undertaker, and it would all be over.
Tomorrow or next week, everything would be repeated. Others would be released from their suffering. And relatives would travel home alone.
21
Expelled from boarding school. Jonas had been caught with another boy in his class, smoking behind the gymnasium.
No, Louise didn’t know that her son smoked. And yes, she knew the school’s rules against smoking, she told the vice principal, when she called to ask how a boy could be expelled for a single offense. Jonas had received no warnings; he had never been late to breakfast, had never skipped a class, had never been written up for not having done his homework.
“We have a zero tolerance policy on smoking, drugs, and alcohol” was the answer she received.
Louise had been so flabbergasted that she almost asked if they were mistaking her son for someone else. But then she recalled her conversation with Jonas. He had freely admitted that he’d been caught with a pack of cigarettes from the nearby filling station. He’d sounded shook up, but Louise sensed it was mostly because he felt he’d let her down.
“He will be sent home,” the vice principal had said. “He’s upstairs in his room packing now.”
“I’ll pick him up this evening,” she’d said, without any idea of the consequences his being expelled would have for the rest of his school year. She would have to see if he could return to his old class.
“He has to leave the school immediately. You have to come now.”
“I can’t do that. And I can’t take all his belongings in my car. He has a bicycle there, too.”
“Then you’ll have to come get the rest of his things later. We have a lot to consider this coming week. This is a big shock for all of us; a lot of people are upset.”
“Listen,” she said. “Jonas saved someone’s life Friday, doesn’t that make any difference? He nearly lost one of the people he is closest to.”