by Olivier Truc
“I understand, of course. And how may I be of help?”
“First, could you tell me what you were doing in Lapland before the war?”
“I took part in an expedition organized by Paul-Émile Victor. I was conducting an ethnological study. We traveled with the Latarjet brothers—both doctors. We crossed the whole of Lapland, apart from the Soviet section, of course.”
“So all four of you were––”
“The four of us made up the French contingent. Paul-Émile and the Latarjet brothers were old friends. I went along as a sort of alibi. The Musée de l’Homme funded our expedition, and as the token ethnologist I provided proof that it was more than an exotic jaunt among friends. It was that, too, of course, but that’s another story. Two Swedes came along with us, and a German. The Swedes were anthropologists from Uppsala: they seemed quite charming at first. And the German was from somewhere in the east, I think, or the southeast. The Sudetenland. Or Bohemia. I can’t really remember. But no matter, he was German at any rate, and a geologist. And then there were the guides and porters, of course. Laplanders—Sami, as we must now call them—who traveled with us the whole way.”
“You said the Swedes seemed charming ‘at first,’” ventured Nina.
“Well, Paul-Émile was a man with a passion, you know. He adored people. He was absolutely committed to learning about other cultures, discovering other perspectives on the world—be it in Polynesia, where he went later in life, or the Far North, at the time of our expedition. The stranger and more exotic a place and its people, the better he liked them. His journey across Lapland was conducted absolutely in this spirit of authentic discovery. So it was for me, too, and for the Latarjet brothers. But we discovered quite early on that our Swedish colleagues felt otherwise. In fact I find it quite hard, with hindsight, to refer to them as ‘colleagues’ at all. What Paul-Émile and I both failed to realize, when we were planning the trip, was that the two anthropologists from Uppsala University were also connected to their country’s State Institute for Racial Biology, the SIFR.”
Henri Mons paused, apparently assessing the impact of this revelation on Nina. She stared back with wide-open eyes, confirming her complete ignorance on the subject.
“Paul, would you be so kind as to fetch the book I left on the armchair in the office?”
Mons took the book, leafed through its pages, then held it out to Nina.
“This is the sort of study our Swedish gentlemen were carrying out at their institute, at the time.”
The book was in Swedish. Nina took her time looking through the yellowed pages, watched intently by Mons. The old man had kept it all these years, and it was obviously of some importance to him. It deserved close attention—and the contents were fascinating indeed. A series of photographic plates was included at the back. It didn’t take Nina long to realize that they were clearly intended illustrate the racial superiority of the Scandinavians and the inferiority of not only the Sami, but also the Tartars, Jews, Finns, Balts, and Russians. The caricature even extended to the types selected to illustrate the Scandinavian peoples: students, pastors, business leaders, and doctors, while the other photographs looked like criminal mug shots. Indeed, many of the people chosen to represent the “sub-races” were actual criminals. Nina was shocked. She looked up.
“The two Swedish researchers were highly cultivated men, perfectly charming,” said Mons. “Their conversation was fascinating and often very funny—one was a Social Democrat, the other a staunch Conservative. They sometimes disagreed on matters of race. The Social Democrat spoke in terms of the coming welfare state—the march of progress, which antisocial elements could not be allowed to hinder. The other man applied a more overtly racist logic. I should point out that very many academics were pro-German in Scandinavia during the war. We French were horrified by their views. At night, in camp, we had some very lively discussions. But we were worlds apart, in truth. Privately, Paul-Émile was furious. He saw how the Swedes manipulated scientific facts to their own ends. But we needed them nonetheless. And they had done a great deal of work on the Sami. To them, the Lapps—as they called them—were an inferior race, doomed to extinction. Their arguments often sounded rather like those advanced today with regard to the inevitable demise of the polar bear—can you imagine? It was revolting. Quite revolting.”
“And the drum?”
“The guides were aware of our disagreements. One of them was particularly sensitive to it, because he had been a subject of the Uppsala gentlemen’s scientific studies. They had measured his skull, as they had those of hundreds of people.”
Henri Mons got to his feet and invited Nina to follow him. They walked the length of a paneled corridor decorated with small gilt-framed paintings of Arctic hunting scenes, each topped with a brass lamp. At the far end, Mons’s study was a spacious room with bookshelves on two walls and a small two-seater divan in the corner. A large cupboard partly filled another wall. A mahogany desk was placed diagonally, almost facing the door, with a large window to the left. Henry Mons took his place behind the desk and invited Nina to sit opposite. The old man had clearly planned their meeting very carefully. Neat piles of papers had been placed within reach, to his left. First, however, he showed Nina a photograph to his right. He leaned across, holding it out for her to examine. Nina bent forward in her seat.
“This was the beginning of the expedition. Paul-Émile is in the middle, of course, with the Latarjet brothers to his right, and the Swedish and German researchers to his left. The Swedes are the two standing right next to him.”
“And this is you,” said Nina, pointing to a man with a frank, open smile, standing to the right of the French doctors.
“Exactly. In my prime! Ah, I would have tried to work my charm on you back then, Mademoiselle, believe me,” he said with what was clearly intended as a gallant smile. “And here are our three guides, our interpreter, and our cook.” Mons ran his finger over the photograph.
The printed caption noted that the picture had been taken in the foyer of a Finnish hotel. The group posed stiffly, as in so many prewar portraits, like solemn heralds of the dreadful events to come. Everyone was dressed in thick overalls, clearly about to set off. The Sami guides were wearing their traditional costume: moccasins with pointed, upturned toes tied into place with straps crisscrossed around their calves; light-colored reindeer-skin trousers, and woven wool tunics decorated with braid. The photograph was in black-and-white, but Nina recognized the royal blue cloth and multicolored strips still worn by the older Sami at the market in Kautokeino. The Samis’ differently shaped hats indicated their region of origin. She noted that one of the guides wore a four-pointed hat, like Aslak.
Henri Mons pointed again to the German geologist. “Poor Ernst. He had been to Lapland before, but he wanted to go there again with us, to revisit a particular place. He died on our trip. He had gone off for several days to make a survey of a location that interested him, taking one of the Sami guides along. But on the way back, he suffered a fatal fall. He was buried in the cemetery in Kautokeino. Ernst was not like his fellow Germans—he never spoke about politics, never said anything for or against Hitler. And he showed no interest in the racial issues that obsessed the two Swedes. Mostly, he kept himself to himself. I surprised him one evening, working by the light of his lamp. I could see he was making notes on a geological map, but he covered it up when he saw me coming. I didn’t ask what he was doing, of course. I know geologists always respect one another’s little secrets.”
“Who is this man with the four-pointed hat?” asked Nina.
“Ah, you mean the devil’s hat.” Mons smiled. “That’s what the devout Christians called it, in the Far North. The devil’s hat. That was Niils. I don’t remember his family name. He was the guide who set off with Ernst and who broke the news of his death to us. He was very badly shaken. He felt responsible, I think. Ernst died when he, Niils, had gone off to kill a reindeer for food. Apparently, Ernst had fallen into some sort of crevice, in
visible under the lichen. His head hit the bare rock. Yes, Niils felt guilty. I had become quite friendly with him. I understood his humiliation at the Swedish researchers’ views. But he would never speak out. I think he thought that all white men—his phrase—shared the same opinion of the Laplanders. His shame was apparent in his expression: a mixture of pride, distance, incomprehension at times, even terror. I was deeply moved by what I saw. I didn’t dare speak to him about it at first, because we had to go through the interpreter, but I showed him, with my own expression, that I knew how he felt. Towards the end of our trip, when I knew I could trust our interpreter, we talked about it one evening. I was dreadfully affected by what I discovered, because it revealed the most extraordinary injustice.”
Mons paused for a moment. Nina saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
“I think you should get some rest now, Father,” said Paul, entering the study. Mons looked tired indeed. He made a show of protestation but finally agreed to take a nap. Nina would have to wait.
25
Tuesday, January 18
10:30 a.m., Kautokeino
André Racagnal parked in front of his room at the Villmarkssenter. Each had its own front door, motel style, and guests did not need to pass through reception on their way in or out. He was free to come and go undisturbed from his wing of the building. He had taken a suite: one bedroom and one large sitting room, where he stored all his equipment before loading it into a set of sturdy trunks for transportation. His preparations for the expedition were unaffected by recent events.
Racagnal took out his rock hammer. He had left it soaking overnight in a bucket of water, to swell the wood of the handle and prevent it from splitting. It was a Swedish model, with a long shaft, also useful as a hiking staff in difficult terrain. Efficient, too, because its long handle gave extra momentum when it came to breaking rocks. He did a final check on his instruments, each in its proper place: his camera, the GPS—though he hardly needed it, nor knew how to use it—his magnifying glass. He had a compass, a stock of soft-leaded pencils for drawing, and some colored crayons, too. Next, he opened a box full of maps, taking time to select the ones he would need, drawn to differing scales, making sure to take several copies of each. Sixty altogether. He began by loading a metal trunk into the back of his Volvo, followed by the rest of the equipment. He took enough clothing for two weeks, and food for two people, for the same length of time.
He thought of stopping in at the pub, but quickly decided it was a bad idea. Shame. For now, at least.
Instead, he focused on recalling the map he had glimpsed briefly at the old farmer’s place. It was highly detailed. He would have to compare it with each of the maps he was taking with him. He knew from experience that geological maps never represent the landscape exactly as it appears in reality. Old and modern maps of the same section of terrain could look completely different. It would be painstaking work, but not impossible. He had an eye for it. He was good at his job and he knew it. Once he had pinpointed a location, he could begin his analysis of the terrain. And then he would be in his element.
He hadn’t said anything to Olsen, but the map seemed to indicate scattered samples, fragments of some unidentified mineral, rather than a concentrated seam. Indicators like that were priceless—if they were properly marked and accurate. But mineral traces in the surface rock were no guarantee of a seam below, except in the imaginations of treasure-map geologists. And Racagnal was no treasure-map geologist. On the contrary, he was well known in the profession for his formidable intuition, based on a flawless ability to read the geologies of the regions he worked in and an encyclopedic knowledge of geological structures, acquired on his many travels. He could read a landscape better than almost anyone else in the business.
He stopped at the service station to fill his jerricans with gas. Then he headed out to Olsen’s place. He had work to do.
26
Tuesday, January 18
1:30 p.m., Paris
Nina took a walk outside to collect her thoughts. She was disturbed by what she had heard so far—horrified by some of it. She had grown up firmly believing that the Nordic countries had created one of the best, most just societies in the world. Perhaps Mons’s account of skull measurements, the racial biology institute, was exaggerated. She had never heard about it before. It couldn’t have been that important.
Paul buzzed her back into the hallway seconds after she had pressed the bell. “Come in. My father has finished his nap. He’s very eager to continue your discussion. I think he still has a great deal to tell you.”
Nina went straight into the study and sat down opposite Henri Mons. The old man looked up from a document he had been reading.
“Niils was a man of many talents, Mademoiselle,” he began immediately. “Like most Laplanders, he had no formal education. Not as we would understand it, at least. But he was highly sensitive, intelligent. He seems to have had something of a gift as a shaman. As for me, this was my first visit to Lapland, and I knew very little about these practices. Paul-Émile was fascinated by them and knew a great deal more. He had already had occasion to observe shamanic rituals in Greenland and was passionately interested. But it was to me that Niils confided his feelings, as I have already mentioned. As I was to learn later, a true shaman never tells anyone that he is a shaman. But I did know that Niils was deeply anxious.
“The anthropologists’ views infuriated us French, but the Sami did not feel angry like us. No—they felt fear, and with good reason. They lived in Scandinavia and would remain there after we had gone home. I have no idea what their perception was of the impending crisis in Europe, the rise of Hitler. Even we hadn’t fully understood what was afoot, after all. But Niils had a sense of foreboding. One evening, he drew the interpreter and me aside, then took a drum out from under his cloak. From what I could tell—we were looking at it by the light of an oil lamp—it was a magnificent piece. And in very good condition. It was oval in shape and scattered with small symbols that I found it difficult to make out.
“I asked Niils what it was, and he told me the drum belonged to him. It was a very solemn moment, and I sensed that this was not the time to conduct a scholarly interview about it, though I was longing to do so. I was very excited, too, because I knew that to find such a drum was one of Paul-Émile’s long-cherished dreams. I would have to be patient. Niils told me that it was in danger. I said I didn’t understand, and he explained that in light of the racial theories gaining credence at the time, anything pertaining to his people and their lifestyle was under threat. I tried to reassure him, but I could see that he was genuinely alarmed. And I have to admit that even though I tried to put a brave face on things, I knew he was right.
“That was when he asked me to take care of the drum, to take it back with me to France and keep it safe, but to return it eventually to Lapland at a time of my choosing. He trusted my judgment. I must confess, Mademoiselle, that I was deeply touched by his show of trust, more than I can say. I was the repository of one of the treasures of Sami civilization.”
Henri Mons paused for a moment. He had spoken eloquently, moved by his vivid memories. Nina touched his forearm. The old man returned her smile—a tacit expression of gratitude for this moment to catch his breath. Nina was similarly affected, but for different reasons. This stranger had made her aware of an uncomfortable truth about her home country, a truth she had known nothing about until now and which she found hard to assimilate. She would need time to adjust to this new perspective. She was grateful for the inquiry—a rock to cling to.
It was early afternoon. Henri Mons asked his son for more tea. While they waited, he sorted through a handful of photographs taken during the expedition, attractive pictures of the everyday lives of people encountered along their route. There were Sami families inside their tents and some family groups posed out of doors. Some of the photographs showed mothers holding their swaddled babies in cradleboards. Some breeders had had themselves photographed standing next to a reind
eer—doubtless the head animal of their herd, their favorite. Looking at the pictures, Nina saw an entire people on their guard. One thing struck her: almost no one smiled. And when anyone did, the effect was so forced, so out of place, that it was almost embarrassing. She glanced quickly through the remaining photographs. A few showed members of the expedition posing with groups of Sami.
“Did you know that Lapland is a fascinating area, geologically?” said Mons. “Rich in mineral deposits. There were many mines active at the time, not least the iron-ore mine in Kiruna. The Germans showed a great deal of interest in that. The Nazis’ armory was made from Kiruna iron ore. But I remember rumors circulating about a vast gold seam. Some people spoke of it almost as a kind of legend. We were surprised, because it had seemed to us that the Sami were not especially concerned with material wealth, in that way. At the time, they were still living an essentially nomadic life. But rumors about the fabulous seam were rife. When Niils entrusted me with the drum, he gave me to understand that it was linked to the gold seam in some way. But he became very—how can I put this?—very grave when he talked about it. He told me the seam was cursed, that it had brought great sorrow to his people. And this was another reason why the drum had to be kept in a place of safety, far away from Lapland, so that the truth about the seam would not fall into the wrong hands, at the wrong time.”
“What was the curse he referred to?” Nina wanted to know.
“You will accuse me of a dreadful lack of curiosity, Mademoiselle, but I did not ask about it at the time. I was caught up in the solemnity of the moment, the feeling that we were watching the dawn of a political cataclysm, the magical but sinister atmosphere—the lamplight, the dark, hostile wilderness all around, the deafening wind, so far from my own civilization, with this man, his extraordinary face, his four-cornered hat. It was quite overwhelming, I assure you.”