The Hidden Child (48 page)

‘I’m really good at helping out with babies,’ said Belinda, meeting Anna’s eye. ‘I helped my mother a lot with Lisen when she was little.’

‘Dan has actually told me about that. About how he and your mother practically had to force you to go out and play with your friends instead of taking care of the baby. And he said you were really good at it. So I’m hoping that I can count on a little assistance in the spring. You can take care of all the nappies.’ Again she poked Belinda in the side, and this time the girl poked her back.

With a smile lighting up her eyes, she said, ‘I’ll only take care of the nappies that have pee on them. Deal?’ Belinda held out her hand, and Anna shook it.

‘Deal. The pee nappies are yours.’ Then she added, ‘Your father can take care of the shitty ones.’

Their laughter echoed through the deserted harbour.

Anna would always remember that moment as one of the best in her life. That moment when the ice thawed.

Axel was in the middle of packing when she arrived. He met her at the door, holding a shirt on a hanger in each hand. Behind him, she could see a garment bag hanging on a door in the hall.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ asked Erica.

Axel nodded as he carefully hung up the shirts so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

‘Yes, I need to get back to work soon. I’m leaving for Paris on Friday.’

‘Can you really leave without finding out who . . .’ She let the words hover in mid-air.

‘I don’t have a choice,’ said Axel grimly. ‘Of course I’ll catch the first plane home if the police need my assistance in any way. But I really need to get back to my work. And it’s not very constructive just to sit here brooding.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily, and Erica noticed how haggard he was starting to look. He seemed to have aged several years since she last saw him.

‘It’ll probably do you good to get away for a while,’ she said gently. Then she hesitated. ‘I have a few questions, several things that I’d like to talk to you about. Could I have a few minutes of your time? If you’re up to it?’

Axel nodded, looking tired and resigned, then motioned for her to come inside. She stopped at the sofa on the veranda, where they’d sat before, but this time he continued on past her, into the next room.

‘What a beautiful room,’ she said breathlessly, looking around. It was like stepping into a museum of a bygone era. Everything in the room dated from the forties, and even though it looked clean and tidy, the room seemed to smell old.

‘Yes, well, neither our parents nor Erik and I had much interest in new-fangled things. Mother and Father never made any major changes to the house, and Erik and I didn’t either. Besides, that was a period filled with many beautiful things, so I see no reason to replace the furniture with more modern pieces, which I think are much uglier,’ he said, running his hand over an elegant tallboy.

They sat down on a sofa with brown upholstery. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, and it forced them to sit up nice and straight.

‘You wanted to ask me something?’ said Axel kindly, but with a trace of impatience.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Erica, suddenly feeling embarrassed. This was the second time she’d come here and bothered Axel with her questions, when he had so many other things to worry about. But as before, she decided that, since she was here, she might as well find out what she wanted to know.

‘I’ve been doing some research into my mother’s life, and also about her friends: your brother, Frans Ringholm, and Britta Johansson.’

Axel nodded, twiddling his thumbs as he waited for her to go on.

‘There was one other person who was part of that group.’

Axel still didn’t speak.

‘Towards the end of the war, a Norwegian resistance fighter came here on my grandfather’s boat . . . The same boat that I know you often travelled on.’

He looked at her without blinking, but she saw him tense up when she mentioned the trips that he’d made, crossing to the Norwegian side.

‘He was a good man, your grandfather,’ said Axel quietly after a moment. His hands now lay still on his lap. ‘One of the best I’ve ever known.’

Erica had never met her maternal grandfather, and it warmed her heart to hear him described so positively.

‘From what I understand, you were in prison at the time when Hans Olavsen stowed away on my grandfather’s boat. He arrived here in 1944, and according to what we’ve found out so far, he stayed until right after the war ended.’

‘You said “we”,’ Axel interrupted her. ‘Who do you mean by “we”?’ His voice sounded tense.

Erica hesitated. Then she merely said, ‘By “we” I mean that I’ve had help from Christian at the library here in Fjällbacka. That’s all.’ She didn’t want to mention Kjell, and Axel seemed to accept her explanation.

‘Yes, I was in prison back then,’ he said, tensing up again. It was as if all the muscles in his body were suddenly reminded of what they had endured and reacted by tightening up.

‘So you never met him?’

Axel shook his head. ‘No, he was already gone by the time I returned.’

‘When did you come back to Fjällbacka?’

‘In June of 1945. With the white buses.’

‘White buses?’ asked Erica, but then she recalled hearing something about them in her history classes.

‘It was a plan initiated by Folke Bernadotte,’ replied Axel, confirming what she vaguely recalled. ‘He organized the transport to bring home Scandinavian prisoners who’d been in German concentration camps. The buses were white with red crosses painted on the roof and sides, so that they wouldn’t be mistaken for military targets.’

‘But why would there be a risk that they’d be mistaken for military targets if they were carrying prisoners after the war ended?’ asked Erica.

Axel smiled at her ignorance and began twiddling his thumbs again. ‘The first buses went to pick up prisoners as early as March and April of 1945, after negotiating with the Germans. They brought home fifteen thousand prisoners that time around. Then, after the war ended, they brought home another ten thousand in May and June. I was on one of the last buses in June 1945.’ It all sounded very matter-of-fact as he explained what happened, but under the reserved tone of voice Erica could hear echoes of the horrors he had experienced.

‘And Hans Olavsen disappeared from here in June 1945. Which means he must have left shortly before you arrived. Is that right?’ she asked.

‘It was probably only a gap of a few days,’ Axel replied, nodding. ‘But you’ll have to forgive me if my memory is a bit muddled on that point. I was extremely . . . exhausted when I came back.’

‘Of course. I understand,’ said Erica, looking down. It was a strange feeling to be talking to someone who had seen the German concentration camps from the inside.

‘Did your brother tell you anything about Hans? Anything you remember? Anything at all? I have the feeling that Erik and his friends spent a lot of time with Hans Olavsen during the year he was here in Fjällbacka.’

Axel stared out the window, apparently searching his memory. He tilted his head to one side and frowned.

‘I recall there was something between the Norwegian and your mother, if you won’t be offended by me saying so.’

‘Not at all.’ Erica waved her hand dismissively. ‘That was a whole lifetime ago, and I found out the same thing myself.’

‘How about that? I guess my memory isn’t as bad as I sometimes think it is.’ He smiled and turned back to look at her. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure that Erik told me there was some sort of romance between Elsy and Hans.’

‘How did she react when he left? Do you remember anything about her from that time?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. Of course she wasn’t really herself after what happened to your grandfather. And she left very soon afterwards to start studying . . . home economics, if I remember rightly. And then we lost contact with each other. By the time she returned to Fjällbacka a few years later, I had already begun working abroad and I wasn’t home very often. She and Erik didn’t have any contact either, from what I remember. That’s not so unusual. People can be good friends as children and adolescents, but later, when adult life and its responsibilities set in, they tend to lose touch.’ He turned to look out the window again.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Erica. She was disappointed that Axel didn’t seem to have any information about Hans either. ‘And no one ever mentioned where Hans had gone? He didn’t tell Erik?’

Axel shook his head apologetically. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I wish I could help you, but I wasn’t really myself when I came back, and afterwards I had other things on my mind. But surely it must be possible to track him down through the authorities,’ he said encouragingly, getting to his feet.

Taking the hint, Erica got up too. ‘Yes, that’s my next step. If I’m lucky, that might solve everything. For all I know, he might not have moved very far away.’

‘Well, I wish you the best of luck,’ said Axel, shaking her hand. ‘I know how important it is to find out about the past so that we can live in the present. Believe me, I know.’ He patted her hand, and Erica smiled gratefully at his attempt to console her.

‘Have you found out anything more about the medal, by the way?’ he asked as she was just about to open the front door.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she told him, feeling more discouraged with each passing minute. ‘I talked to an expert on Nazi medals in Göteborg, but unfortunately the medal is too common to be traced.’

‘I’m really sorry that I couldn’t be of more help.’

‘That’s okay. It was a long shot,’ she said, waving goodbye.

The last she saw of Axel, he was standing in the doorway, watching her leave. She felt very, very sorry for him. But something he’d said had given her an idea. Filled with determination, Erica headed back towards Fjällbacka.

Kjell hesitated before knocking. As he stood there at his father’s door, he suddenly felt like a frightened little boy again. The memory transported him back to all those times he’d stood outside the prison gates clutching his mother’s hand, his stomach gripped by equal parts fear and anticipation at the thought of seeing his father. Because, in the beginning, he had looked forward to the visits. He had missed Frans and longed to see him again, remembering only the good times: those brief periods when his father wasn’t in prison, when he would swing Kjell through the air, or take him for walks in the woods, holding him by the hand and telling him all about the mushrooms and trees and bushes. Kjell had thought that his father knew about everything in the world. But at night he had needed to press his pillow over his ears to shut out the sounds of quarrelling, those hateful, horrid fights that never seemed to have a beginning or end. His mother and father would simply start up from where they’d left off the last time Frans had disappeared into prison, and they would keep on like that – the same arguments, the same physical abuse, over and over again – until the next time the police came and led his father away.

For that reason, Kjell’s sense of anticipation dwindled with each year that passed, until he felt only fear as he stood in the visitors’ room and saw his father’s expectant face. And later the fear was transformed into hatred. In some ways it would have been easier if he didn’t have memories of those walks in the woods. Because what sparked his hatred and gave it fuel was the question that he had constantly asked himself as a child. How could his father, time after time, make the same choice to exclude everything? To exclude him? Abandoning him for a world that was grey and cold and that stripped away something in his eyes every time he had to go back.

Kjell pounded on the door, annoyed with himself for succumbing to his memories.

‘I know you’re in there! Open up!’ he shouted and then listened tensely. Finally he heard the safety chain being lifted off and the bolt pulled back.

‘Security against your pals, I assume,’ snapped Kjell, forcing his way past Frans into the hall.

‘What do you want now?’ asked Frans.

Kjell was struck by the fact that his father suddenly looked so old. And frail. Then he dismissed the idea. The man was tougher than most people. He’d probably outlive them all.

‘I want some information from you.’ He went in and sat down on the sofa without waiting for an invitation.

Frans sat in the armchair across from him, but didn’t say a word. Just waited.

‘What do you know about a man by the name of Hans Olavsen?’

Frans gave a start but quickly regained control of himself. He casually leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on the armrests. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, looking his son in the eyes.

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Why should I help you if you’re going to take that attitude?’

Kjell leaned forward so that his face was only centimetres from his father’s. He stared at him for a long time before he said coldly: ‘Because you owe me. You owe me and need to take every little opportunity to help me if you don’t want to run the risk that I’ll dance on your grave when you’re dead.’

For a moment something flashed through Frans’s eyes. Something that had been lost. Maybe the memory of the walks through the woods and strong arms lifting a little boy towards the sky. Then it was gone. He looked at his son and said calmly:

‘Hans Olavsen was a Norwegian resistance fighter who was seventeen years old when he came to Fjällbacka. I think it was in 1944. A year later he left. That’s all I know.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Kjell, leaning back again. ‘I know that you spent a lot of time together – you, Elsy Moström, Britta Johansson, and Erik Frankel. And now Britta and Erik have been murdered within months of each other. Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?’

Frans ignored the question. Instead he said, ‘What does the Norwegian have to do with that?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m planning to find out,’ snarled Kjell, clenching his jaws in an attempt to keep his anger in check. ‘So what else do you know about him? Tell me about the time you spent together, tell me why he left. Every detail you can remember.’

Frans sighed and looked as if he was casting his mind back. ‘So it’s the details you want . . . Let’s see if I can remember anything. Well, he lived at Elsy’s parents’ house, and he had come here by stowing away on her father’s boat.’