The Hidden Child

‘Yes, she wrote about them in the diaries that I found. I know about your brother, but who were Frans and Britta?’

‘Diaries?’ Axel gave a start of surprise, but it came and went so quickly that a second later Erica thought she must have imagined his reaction. ‘Frans Ringholm and Britta …’ Axel snapped his fingers. ‘Now what was Britta’s last name?’ He closed his eyes as if searching the dark recesses of his memory but shook his head, unable to find the information. ‘Anyway, I think she still lives here in Fjällbacka. She has daughters – two or three, I’m not sure – but they’re quite a bit older than you. Hmm … it’s on the tip of my tongue, but … She probably changed her name when she got married. Wait, now I remember. Her last name was Johansson, and she married a man also named Johansson, so she didn’t have to change her name after all.’

‘So I should be able to find her. But you didn’t answer my question. What was my mother like? Back then.’

Axel was silent for a long time, then he said: ‘She was a quiet girl. Contemplative, but never gloomy. Not the way you describe her. She had a quiet joy about her that came from inside. Nothing like Britta.’ He snorted.

‘So what was Britta like?’

‘I never really liked her. I couldn’t understand why my brother wanted to spend time with such a … silly goose.’ Axel shook his head. ‘No, your mother was a very different sort of girl. Britta was shallow and superficial, and she kept running after Frans in a way that … girls just didn’t do back then. Those were different times, you know.’ He gave Erica a wry smile and winked.

‘So what about Frans?’ Erica was staring at Axel open-mouthed, ready to take in all the information that he had about her mother. The more she found out, the more she realized how little she’d known her mother.

‘Frans Ringholm was someone else I didn’t think my brother should spend time with. A fierce temper, a mean streak, and … no, he’s not the sort you should be friends with. Then or now.’

‘What does he do now?’

‘He lives in Grebbestad. And you might say that he and I have taken different paths in life.’ Axel’s tone of voice was filled with contempt.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that I’ve devoted my life to fighting Nazism, while Frans would like to see history repeat itself, and preferably here on Swedish soil.’

‘So how does the Nazi medal that I found come into the picture?’ In her eagerness, Erica leaned towards Axel, but it was as if his face suddenly closed.

‘Ah, that’s right, the medal …’ he said, getting to his feet and moving quickly towards the door. ‘I think we should go and look for it.’

As she followed, Erica wondered what she’d said to make him shut down like that, but she decided it wasn’t the right time to ask. Out in the hall she saw that Axel had stopped in front of a door that she hadn’t noticed before. The door was closed, and he hesitated, his hand on the knob.

‘I think I’d better go in alone,’ he said, his voice quavering slightly. Erica realized they must be standing outside the library, the room where Erik had died.

‘We can do this some other time,’ she said, again feeling guilty for disturbing Axel in his bereavement.

‘No, we’ll do it now,’ he said brusquely. Then he repeated his words, this time in a gentler tone, as if to show that he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh.

‘I’ll be right back.’ He opened the door, stepped inside, and then closed the door behind him. Erica stayed in the hall, listening to Axel rummaging about inside. It sounded as though he was pulling out drawers, and he must have found what he was looking for very quickly because it took only a minute or two before he came out.

‘Here it is.’ With an inscrutable expression, he put the medal in Erica’s outstretched hand.

‘Thank you. I …’ At a loss for words, she simply closed her fingers around the medal and repeated ‘Thanks.’

As she walked along the gravel path with the medal in her pocket, she could feel Axel’s eyes watching her. For a moment she considered going back to apologize for bothering him, but then she heard the sound of the front door closing.

CHAPTER 10 FJÄLLBACKA 1943 (#ulink_bac89eac-16d7-5d7f-a6a8-5f6e80d7c148)

‘I don’t understand how Per Albin Hansson can be such a coward!’ Vilgot Ringholm slammed his fist on the table, making the cognac decanter jump. He’d told Bodil to bring out the supper-time snacks, and he wondered what was taking her so long. How typical of the woman, dawdling like that. Nothing ever got done properly unless he did it himself.

‘Bodil!’ he shouted in the direction of the kitchen, but there was no response. He knocked the ash from his cigar and shouted again, bellowing at the top of his lungs, ‘Bodillll!’

‘Did the missus lose her way out in the kitchen?’ joked Egon Rudgren, and Hjalmar Bengtsson joined in the laughter. That made Vilgot even angrier. Now the woman was making him look a fool in front of his presumptive business partner. Something had to be done. But just as he was about to get up and find out what was going on, his wife came in from the kitchen, carrying a fully laden tray in her hands.

‘I’m sorry it took so long,’ she said, her eyes lowered as she placed the tray on the table in front of them. ‘Frans, could you …?’ She motioned towards the kitchen, but Vilgot waved the boy back.

‘I won’t have Frans in the kitchen, fussing with women’s work. He’s a big boy now, and he can stay here with us and learn a thing or two.’ He winked at his son, who sat up straight in the armchair across from him. This was the first time he’d been allowed to linger on in the room after one of his father’s business dinners. Usually he was expected to excuse himself as soon as they finished eating and retreat to his room, but today his father had insisted that he stay. Pride swelled his chest until it seemed the buttons would fly off his shirt and scatter in every direction. And the evening was about to get even better.

‘All right, my boy, how about tasting a few drops of cognac? What do you gentlemen think? He turned thirteen this week. Isn’t it about time the boy tasted his first cognac?’

‘About time?’ laughed Hjalmar. ‘I’d say it was long overdue. My boys got their first taste when they were eleven, and it did them good, let me tell you.’

‘Vilgot, do you really think …’ Bodil watched disconsolately as her husband deliberately poured a big glass of cognac and handed it to Frans, who started coughing at the first swallow.

‘All right, lad, take it easy – it should be sipped, not gulped.’

‘Vilgot …’ said Bodil again.

‘Why are you still here?’ snarled Vilgot, his face darkening. ‘Don’t you have things to clean up in the kitchen?’

For a moment it looked as if Bodil meant to say something. She turned to Frans, but he merely raised his glass triumphantly and said with a smile: ‘Skål, my dear mother.’

To the sound of roaring laughter she went back to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

‘Now where was I?’ said Vilgot, motioning for his guests to help themselves to the herring sandwiches on the silver tray. ‘Oh, right, what can Prime Minister Per Albin be thinking? Of course we must offer Germany our support!’

Egon and Hjalmar nodded. Naturally, they were in full agreement.

‘It’s deplorable,’ said Hjalmar, ‘that in these difficult times Sweden can’t stand tall and uphold Swedish ideals. It almost makes me ashamed to be Swedish.’

All the men nodded and sipped their cognac.

‘What am I thinking? We can’t sit here drinking cognac with the herring. Frans, go downstairs and fetch us some cold pilsners.’

Five minutes later order was restored, and the herring sandwiches could be washed down with big gulps of Tuborg beer, chilled from the cellar. Frans was again sitting in the armchair across from his father, and he smiled from ear to ear when Vilgot, without comment, opened one of the bottles and handed it to him.

‘I’ve contributed a krona or two to support the good cause. And I’d suggest that you gentlemen do the same. Hitler needs all the good men that he can get on his side right now.’

‘Business is certainly booming,’ said Hjalmar, raising his bottle. ‘We can hardly keep up with the export demand for all the ore. Say what you like about the war, from a business perspective, it’s not a bad idea.’

‘You’re right about that. And if we can get rid of those miserable Jews at the same time, so much the better.’ Egon reached for another herring sandwich. By now there were only a few left. He took a bite and then turned to Frans, who was listening intently to everything that was said. ‘You should be proud of your father, boy. There aren’t many like him in Sweden these days.’

‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Frans, suddenly embarrassed by the attention directed at him.

‘Listen to what your father says, and ignore all those morons who condemn the Germans and the war. Most of them are mixed-breeds, you know. There are a lot of gypsies and Walloons hereabouts, and naturally they’re out to twist the facts. But your father, he knows what’s what. And we do too. We’ve all seen how the Jews and the foreigners have tried to take over, doing their damnedest to destroy what’s Swedish and pure. No, Hitler is on the right track, you mark my words.’ Egon was all fired up, breadcrumbs flying out of his mouth. Frans was spellbound.

‘I think we should talk business now, gentlemen.’ Vilgot set his bottle of beer down on the table with a bang and all eyes turned to him.

Frans sat there listening to the men for another twenty minutes. Then he stood up unsteadily and went to bed. It felt as if the whole room was spinning as he lay down, fully clothed. From the parlour he could hear the low drone of the men talking. As Frans drifted off to sleep, he was blissfully unaware of how he was going to feel when he woke up.

CHAPTER 11 (#ulink_2a0a1e3a-d51d-5ea2-ab85-d4d1fe9aa92a)