The Hidden Child (41 page)

He’d read the articles that Erik had given him again and again, yet he still couldn’t work out what he was supposed to make of these scraps of information. That was what surprised him the most. If Erik Frankel had wanted to hand him a story, why hadn’t he just come out and told him what it was? Why this cryptic approach? Kjell sighed. The only thing the articles told him about Hans Olavsen was that he’d been a resistance fighter during World War II. For a second he considered asking his father whether he knew anything more about the Norwegian, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He would rather spend a hundred hours in some archive than seek his father’s help.

An archive. That was a thought. Was there some sort of database in Norway listing people who had been part of the resistance movement? A great deal must have been written about the subject, and someone was bound to have researched the topic and attempted to chart the movement’s history. Someone always did.

He opened his Internet browser and ran a series of searches using various combinations of words until he finally found what he was looking for. A man named Eskil Halvorsen had written a number of books about Norway during the Second World War, and in particular about the resistance movement. This was the man he needed to talk to. Kjell found an online Norwegian phone directory and located Halvorsen’s number. He immediately reached for the phone and punched in the digits, then had to redial because in his excitement he’d forgotten to start with the country code for Norway. He wasn’t concerned that he would be disturbing the man on a Saturday morning; a journalist couldn’t afford to have those kinds of scruples.

After waiting impatiently for several seconds, he finally heard a voice at the other end. Kjell introduced himself and explained that he was trying to locate a man by the name of Hans Olavsen who had been part of the resistance during the war and who had subsequently fled to Sweden.

‘. . . So that’s not a name that you’ve come across in your research?’ Disappointed, Kjell was drawing circles on his notepad. ‘. . . Yes, I realize that we’re talking about thousands who were active in the resistance movement, but is there any possibility . . .?’

He continued to draw feverishly on his notepad as he listened to a long speech about the organizational structure of the Norwegian resistance. It was undeniably a fascinating subject, especially considering that neo-Nazism was his speciality, but Kjell didn’t want to lose sight of his quest.

‘Is there any archive that lists the name of all the resistance fighters? . . . Okay, so there is some documentation then? . . . Could you possibly help me by checking for any mention of Hans Olavsen and in particular any reference to where he might be now? I’d very grateful. And by the way, he came to Sweden in 1944, to Fjällbacka, if that’s any help to you.’

Kjell put down the phone, pleased with himself. He may not have got the hot lead he was hoping for, but he was convinced that if anyone could dig up information about Hans Olavsen, it was the man he had just spoken to.

And in the meantime, there was something he himself could do. The Fjällbacka library might have more information about the Norwegian. It was at least worth a try. He glanced at his watch. If he left now, he could get there before the library closed. He grabbed his jacket, turned off his computer, and left the office.

Far away, Eskil Halvorsen had already started looking for information on the resistance fighter named Hans Olavsen.

Maja was still clutching the doll when they put her in the car. Erica was so touched by the old woman’s gift, and it was endearing to see how instantly Maja had fallen in love with the doll.

‘What a sweet old lady,’ she said to Patrik, who merely nodded as he focused on navigating through Göteborg’s traffic, with all the one-way streets and dinging trams that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

‘Where should we park?’ he asked, looking around.

‘There’s a spot –’ Erica pointed, and Patrik pulled in and parked.

‘It’s probably best if you and Maja don’t go into the shop with me,’ she said, taking the pushchair out of the boot. ‘I don’t think antique shops are the proper setting for little miss mischief here – you know how she loves to get her hands on things.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Patrik, putting Maja in the chair. ‘We’ll go for a walk. But you’ll have to tell me all about it afterwards.’

‘I will, I promise.’ Erica waved to Maja and then headed for the address she’d been given over the phone. The antique shop was on Guldheden, and she found it easily. A bell rang as she stepped inside, and a short, thin man with a flowing beard came out from behind a curtain.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked politely, with an expectant air.

‘Hi, I’m Erica Falck. We spoke on the phone earlier.’ She went over to him and held out her hand.

‘Enchanté,’ he said, and to Erica’s great surprise he kissed her hand. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed her hand. If ever. ‘So, I understand you have a medal that you’d like to know more about, is that right? Come in and we can sit down while I take a look at it.’ He held the curtain aside for her and she had to duck slightly in order to go through an unusually low doorway. Then she stopped short. Russian icons covered every inch of the walls in the dark little nook, which otherwise had room only for a small table and two chairs.

‘My passion,’ said the man, who on the phone had introduced himself as Åke Grundén. ‘I have one of Sweden’s finest collections of Russian icons,’ he added proudly as they sat down.

‘They’re beautiful,’ said Erica, looking at them.

‘Oh, they’re much more than that, my dear, so much more than that,’ he said, practically glowing with pride as he regarded his collection. ‘They are the bearers of a history and a tradition that is . . . magnificent.’ He stopped then and put on a pair of glasses. ‘But I have a tendency to wax lyrical once I get started on that subject, so it’s best if we turn to what you’re here to talk about. It sounds interesting, I must say.’

‘Well, I understand that you have another speciality: medals from the Second World War.’

He peered at her over the rim of his glasses. ‘It’s easy to get a bit isolated when one chooses to prioritize old artefacts rather than surrounding oneself with other people. I’m not entirely certain that I’ve made the right choice, but it’s easy to be wise with hindsight.’ He smiled, and Erica smiled back. He had a quiet, ironic sense of humour that appealed to her.

She put her hand in her pocket and carefully took out the medal wrapped in cloth, as Åke turned on a high-intensity lamp that stood on the table. He watched with reverence as she removed the cloth and took out the medal.

‘Ah,’ he said, holding it in the palm of his hand. He studied it intently, twisting and turning it under the strong light of the lamp, squinting his eyes so as not to miss any of the small details.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked at last, again peering at her over the rim of his glasses.

Erica told him about the chest that belonged to her mother and how she’d found the medal inside.

‘And your mother had no connection to Germany, as far as you know?’

Erica shook her head. ‘None that I’ve ever heard of, at least. But Fjällbacka, where my mother lived and grew up, is close to the Norwegian border. According to some research I’ve been doing, many local people got involved in helping the Norwegian resistance movement during the war. My maternal grandfather allowed people to smuggle goods to Norway on his boat. Towards the end of the war he even brought back a Norwegian resistance fighter and gave him lodging.’

‘Yes, there was undeniably a great deal of contact between the coastal towns of our two countries during the German occupation of Norway . . .’ He sounded as if he were thinking aloud as he continued to study the medal. ‘Well, I have no idea how this came into your mother’s possession,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you this much – what you have here is an Iron Cross, a medal awarded for particularly valorous efforts on Germany’s behalf.’

‘Is there any sort of list of people who received this medal?’ asked Erica hopefully. ‘Whatever else one might say about the Germans, they were good administrators during the war, and surely there must be some archive . . .’

Åke shook his head. ‘No, there’s no list that I know of. There were various grades of Iron Cross; this is what’s known as an Iron Cross First Class and it’s not particularly rare. Something in the region of four hundred and fifty thousand were handed out during the war, so it would be impossible to trace the recipient.’

After all the recent setbacks Erica had been pinning her hopes on the medal. It was bitterly disappointing to come up against yet another dead end. She got up and thanked Åke, reaching to shake his hand. Instead he planted another kiss on her hand and said, ‘I’m sorry, I wish I could have been more helpful.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said, opening the door. ‘I’ll just have to keep searching. I’m desperate to find out why my mother had this medal in her possession.’

But when the door closed behind her, Erica felt utterly discouraged. She didn’t believe she would ever solve the mystery of the medal.

Chapter 32
Sachsenhausen 1945

He was in a haze for much of the transport. What he remembered most was how his ear had festered and ached. He had sat in the train to Germany, crammed together with lots of other prisoners from Grini, unable to focus on anything other than his head, which felt like it would explode. Even when he learned that they were going to be moved to Germany, he had reacted with a dull lassitude. In a sense, the news came as a relief. He knew that Germany meant death. No one knew exactly what to expect, but there had been whispers and hints and rumours about the fate that awaited them. They had been designated NN-prisoners, from the German words
Nacht und Nebel
– night and fog. As such they would receive no court trial, no sentence would be passed, their relatives would never learn their fate: they would simply vanish into the night and the fog.

Axel had thought he was prepared for whatever might await him when he got off the train in Germany. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality. The train had delivered them to hell. A hell without fire burning under their feet, but hell just the same.

He had been here for several weeks now, and what he’d seen during that time haunted his dreams as he slept uneasily each night, and filled him with anxiety each morning when they were forced to get up at three a.m. and work without interruption until nine at night.

The NN-prisoners had it worse than the others. They were regarded as already dead, and hence were at the bottom of the pecking order. So that there would be no mistake, they all had a red ‘N’ on their backs. The red indicated that they were political prisoners. Criminals wore green symbols, and there was a constant battle between the red and green inmates over who was in charge. The only consolation was that the Nordic prisoners had joined forces. They were spread throughout the camp, but every evening after work they would gather to talk about what was happening. Those who could spare it would slice off a small piece of their daily ration of bread. The pieces were then collected and given to the Nordic prisoners who were ill in the infirmary. They were all determined that as many Scandinavians as possible would return home. But there were many who were beyond help. Axel soon lost track of all the prisoners who perished.

He looked at his hand holding the shovel. It was nothing but bone; no real flesh, just skin stretched over his knuckles. Feeling weak, he leaned on the shovel for a moment when the closest guard happened to look away, but then hurried to resume digging as soon as the guard turned back in his direction. Every shovelful made him pant with the effort. Axel forced himself not to glance at the reason for all the digging that he and the other prisoners were doing. He’d made that mistake only once, on the first day. And he could still see the scene every time he closed his eyes. The vast heap of corpses. Emaciated skeletons that had been piled up like rubbish and were now to be tossed into a mass grave, all jumbled together. It was best not to look. He caught only a glimpse out of the corner of his eye as he strained to shovel away enough dirt so as not to incur the guards’ displeasure.

Suddenly the prisoner next to him sank to the ground. Just as gaunt and malnourished as Axel, he simply collapsed, unable to haul himself to his feet again. Axel considered going over to help the man, but as always the thought was dismissed. Right now all his dwindling reserve of energy was dedicated to his own survival. That was the way it was in the camps: each person had to fend for himself and try to survive as best he could. The German political prisoners were old hands, and he’d heeded their advice. ‘
Nie auffallen
,’ they said: don’t draw attention to yourself, don’t attempt to escape. The key was to position yourself discreetly in the middle and keep your head down whenever there was any threat of trouble. And so Axel watched with indifference as the guard went over the prisoner on the ground, took him by the arm, and dragged him to the centre of the pit, the deepest section, where they’d already finished digging. The guard then calmly climbed out, leaving the prisoner behind. He wasn’t going to waste any bullets on the man. Times were hard, why waste a bullet on someone who was basically dead anyway? One by one the corpses from the great heap would be tossed on top of him. If he wasn’t dead yet, he would soon die from suffocation.

Axel looked away from the prisoner in the pit and carried on digging in his corner. He no longer thought about everybody back home. There was no room for such thoughts if he was going to survive.

Chapter 33