The Hidden Child (56 page)

Today I took the train to Borlänge. Mother stood at the door and waved, but didn’t come with me. It’s getting harder to hide my condition. And I don’t want my mother to bear the shame. It’s so hard for me to do this. But I have prayed to God to give me the strength to see it through. The strength to give away the child that I’ve never met, but already love so much, so very much . . .

Chapter 46
Borlänge 1945

He never came back. He had kissed her goodbye, told her that he would be back soon, and left. And she had waited. At first feeling confident and secure, then with a slight pang of uneasiness, which over time surged into an overwhelming panic. Because he never did come back. He broke his promise to her. Betrayed her and their child. And she had been so sure of him. She had never even questioned the promise that he’d made to her, taking it for granted that he loved her as much as she loved him. What a stupid, naïve girl she had been. How many girls had been fooled by the same story?

When it was no longer possible to hide her pregnancy, she had turned to her mother. With bowed head, unable to meet Hilma’s eyes, she had told her everything. That she had allowed herself to be duped, that she had believed his promises, and that she was now carrying his child. At first her mother hadn’t said a word. A dead, icy silence settled over the kitchen where they were sitting, and only then had fear truly gripped Elsy’s heart. Because deep inside she had been hoping that her mother would rock her in her arms, and say: ‘Dear child, everything will be all right. We’ll work things out.’ The mother Elsy had had before her father died would have done that. She would have possessed the strength to love her daughter in spite of the shame. But part of Hilma had died with her husand, and the part that remained was not strong enough.

Without saying a word, she had packed a suitcase for Elsy, putting in all the essentials. And then she put her sixteen-year-old daughter on a train to Borlänge, sending her off to stay with Hilma’s sister who had a farm there. Hilma couldn’t even bring herself to go with her to the station; they had said a brief goodbye in the hall, before she turned her back on Elsy and went into the kitchen. The story everyone in town would hear was that Elsy had gone to attend a home economics school.

Five months passed. In spite of the fact that her belly grew with each week that went by, she had worked as hard as anyone else on the farm. From morning to night she had toiled with all the tasks assigned to her, while the aching in her back got worse from the kicking in her womb. Sometimes she wanted to hate the baby. But she couldn’t. It was a part of her and a part of Hans – and even now she couldn’t feel true hatred towards him. So how could she hate a creature who united the two of them? But everything had already been arranged. The child would be taken away from her right after the birth, to be given up for adoption. There was no other way, said Aunt Edith. Her husband, Anton, had taken care of all the practical details, muttering all the while how shameful it was for his wife to have a niece who had slept with the first guy to come sniffing around. Elsy couldn’t bring herself to contradict him. She accepted the reproaches without protest and without being able to offer any explanation. It was hard to argue with the fact that Hans had deserted her. In spite of his promise.

The labour pains started early one morning. At first she thought it was just the usual backache that had woken her. But then the pain got worse, coming and going, but growing stronger. After lying there, tossing and turning, for two hours, she finally realized what was happening and managed to roll out of bed. With her hands pressed to the small of her back, she had gone to Edith and Anton’s bedroom and hesitantly awakened her aunt. That was followed by frantic activity. She was ordered back to bed, and the eldest daughter of the house was sent to fetch the midwife. Water was set to boil on the stove, and towels were taken out of the linen cupboard. Lying in bed, Elsy could feel her terror growing.

After ten hours the pain was unbearable. The midwife had arrived hours ago and rather roughly examined her. She was stern and unfriendly, making it very clear what she thought of unmarried girls who got themselves pregnant. No one had a kind word or a smile for Elsy as she lay in bed, believing she was going to die. Each time a wave of pain washed over her, she would grip the bed frame and clench her teeth so as not to scream. It felt like someone was slicing her down the middle. At first she was able to rest a bit between the contractions, to catch her breath and try to recoup her strength. But as the hours went on the contractions started coming so close together that she never had a chance to rest. The thought came again and again: Now I’m going to die.

She must have said the words out loud, because through the fog of pain she saw the midwife glare at her angrily and say: ‘Stop making such a fuss. You’re the one who got yourself into this mess, so you can just get through it without complaining. Think about that, my girl.’

Elsy had no strength left to protest. She gripped the bed frame so hard that her knuckles turned white, and then a new level of pain raced through her abdomen and into her legs. She had never known that such pain was even possible. It was everywhere, penetrating into every fibre, every cell of her body. And now she was starting to get tired. She had fought the pain for so long that part of her just wanted to give up, to sink down and let the pain take over and do whatever it liked with her. But she knew that she couldn’t allow that to happen. It was her child, and Hans’s, that wanted to come out, and she would give birth to this baby if it was the last thing she ever did.

A new type of pain started merging with the contractions, that were so familiar by now. She felt a great pressure, and the midwife nodded with satisfaction to Elsy’s aunt, who stood nearby.

‘It will be over soon,’ she said, pressing on Elsy’s stomach. ‘You need to bear down with all your might when I tell you to, and that baby will be here very soon.’

Elsy didn’t reply but she heard what the midwife had said and was waiting for what would happen next. The feeling that she needed to bear down increased, and she took a deep breath.

‘All right, now push with all your might,’ the midwife commanded, and Elsy pressed her chin to her chest and strained as hard as she could. It felt as though nothing happened, but the midwife gave her a curt nod to indicate that she was doing it right. ‘Wait until the next contraction,’ the woman said harshly.

Elsy felt the pressure building once more, and when it was at its worst, she was again ordered to bear down. This time she felt something loosen – it was hard to describe, but it was as if something gave way.

‘The head is out now, Elsy. Just one more contraction, and . . .’

Elsy closed her eyes for a moment, but all she could see was Hans. She didn’t have the strength to grieve for him right now, so she opened her eyes again.

‘Now!’ said the midwife as she stood between Elsy’s legs. With her last ounce of strength, Elsy pressed her chin to her chest and bore down with her knees drawn up.

Something wet and slippery slid out of her, and she fell back, exhausted, on to the sweat-drenched sheet. Her first feeling was relief. Relief that all the hours of torment were over. She was worn out in a way that she’d never felt before; every part of her body was utterly exhausted, and she couldn’t move even an inch – until she heard the cry. An angry, shrill cry that made her struggle to prop herself up on her elbows to see where it was coming from.

She sobbed when she caught sight of him. He was . . . perfect. Sticky and bloody, and angry at being out in the cold, but perfect. Elsy fell back on the pillows when she realized that this was the first and last time she would ever see him. The midwife cut the umbilical cord and carefully cleaned him off with a washcloth. Then she dressed him in a tiny, embroidered infant’s shirt that Edith had provided. No one paid any attention to Elsy, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the boy. Her heart felt as if it would burst with love, and her eyes were hungry to take in every detail of him. Not until Edith made a move to take him out of the room did she manage to speak.

‘I want to hold him!’

‘That’s not advisable, under the circumstances,’ said the midwife angrily, motioning for the aunt to go. But Edith hesitated.

‘Please, just let me hold him. Just for a minute. Then you can take him away.’ Elsy’s tone of voice was so persuasive that her aunt came over and placed the baby in Elsy’s arms. She held him carefully as she looked into his eyes. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she whispered, rocking him gently.

‘You’re bleeding on his shirt,’ said the midwife, looking annoyed.

‘I have more shirts,’ said Edith, giving the woman a look that silenced her.

Elsy couldn’t get enough of looking at him. He felt warm and heavy in her arms, and she stared with fascination at his little fingers with the perfect, tiny fingernails.

‘He’s a fine boy,’ said Edith, standing next to the bed.

‘He looks like his father,’ said Elsy, smiling as the baby held on to her finger.

‘You need to hand him over now. He has to be fed,’ said the midwife, taking the boy out of Elsy’s arms. Her first instinct was to resist, to grab him back and never let him go. But that moment passed, and the midwife began hastily pulling the bloody shirt off the infant and putting him into a clean one. Then she handed him to Edith, who, after a last look at Elsy, carried him out of the room.

At that moment, as she looked at her son for the last time, Elsy felt something break deep inside her heart. She did not know how she would survive such pain. And as she lay there in her sweaty, bloodied bed with an empty womb and empty arms, she decided never to subject herself to those sorts of feelings again. Never, ever. With tears running down her face, she made herself that promise while the midwife roughly helped her with the afterbirth.

Chapter 47

‘Martin!’

‘Paula!’

They both shouted at the exact same time, each on their way to the other’s office with urgent news. Now they stood in the corridor, staring at one another, their cheeks flushed. Martin was the first to pull himself together.

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘Kjell Ringholm was just here, and there’s something I have to tell you about.’

‘Okay, but then I’ve got something to tell you, too,’ said Paula, following him into his office.

He closed the door behind her and sat down. She sat down across from him, but she was so eager to share what she’d found out that she could hardly sit still.

‘First of all, Frans Ringholm confessed to the murder of Britta Johansson. He also hinted that he was the one who killed Erik Frankel and . . .’ Martin hesitated, ‘the man we found in the grave.’

‘What? He confessed to his son before he died?’ exclaimed Paula in astonishment.

Martin pushed across the desk the plastic sleeve containing the three-page letter. ‘Afterwards, actually. Kjell got this in the post today. Read it and then tell me your immediate impressions.’

Paula picked up the letter and began reading intently. After she was finished, she put the pages back in the plastic sleeve and said with a pensive frown on her face: ‘Well, his confession that he killed Britta is plain enough. But as for Erik and Hans Olavsen . . . He just writes that he’s the one to blame, and that’s rather an odd way of putting it, in this context, especially since he’s so unambiguous about Britta. So I don’t know. I’m not sure that he’s saying he killed the other two. And besides . . .’ She leaned forward and was about to tell Martin what she had found out, when he interrupted her.

‘Wait. There’s more.’ He held up his hand, and she closed her mouth, looking slightly offended. ‘Kjell has been doing some research on this Hans Olavsen. Trying to find out where he went and uncover more about him in general.’

‘And?’ said Paula impatiently.

‘He’s been in touch with a Norwegian professor who’s an expert on the German occupation of Norway. Since the professor has so much material on the Norwegian resistance movement, Kjell thought he might be able to help locate Hans Olavsen.’

‘And?’ Paula repeated, starting to look annoyed since Martin couldn’t seem to get to the point.

‘At first he didn’t find anything.’

Paula sighed loudly.

‘. . . but then Kjell faxed over an article with a photograph of the “resistance fighter” Hans Olavsen.’ Martin drew quote marks in the air.

‘Then what?’ Now Paula’s interest had been sparked, and for a moment she forgot about her own news.

‘The thing is, that boy was not a resistance fighter at all. He wasn’t even called Olavsen – that was his mother’s maiden name, which he took as his own surname after he fled to Sweden. It seems his Norwegian mother was married to a German named Reinhardt Wolf. When the Germans occupied Norway, Wolf was given a high position in the Norwegian SS, thanks to the fact that his wife had taught him the language. At the end of the war the father was captured and sent to a prison in Germany. Nobody knows what happened to the mother, but the son, Hans, disappeared from Norway in 1944 and was never seen again. And we know why: he fled to Sweden, pretending to be in the resistance, and then somehow ended up in a grave in Fjällbacka cemetery.’