The Hidden Child (16 page)

Chapter 12
Kristiansand 1943

It wasn’t that Axel enjoyed taking risks, nor was he particularly brave. Of course he was afraid. He’d be a fool not to be scared. But it was simply something that he felt he had to do. He couldn’t just sit back and allow evil to take over without lifting a finger.

He stood at the rail, feeling the wind whip at his face. He loved the smell of salt water. He’d always been envious of the fishermen, out on the sea from early morning until late in the evening, letting their boats take them where the fish were plentiful. Axel kept his envy to himself; he knew that they would only laugh at him. They wouldn’t believe that he, the doctor’s son, who was supposed to continue his studies and become something grand, would be jealous of them. Envious of the blisters on their hands, the smell of fish that never left their clothes, the uncertainty about whether they would return home each time they went out. They would find it both absurd and presumptuous that he should wish to live the life of a fisherman. They would never understand. But he felt in every fibre of his being that this was the sort of life he was actually destined for. Of course he had a good head for studying, but he never felt as comfortable with books and learning as he did out here, on the rolling deck of a boat, with the wind gusting through his hair and the smell of fish in his nostrils.

Erik, on the other hand, loved the world of books. A happy glow suffused him as he sat on his bed in the evening, his eyes racing over the pages of some book that was much too old and thick to prompt any kind of enthusiasm in anyone else. He devoured information, he revelled in acquiring knowledge, gorging on facts, dates, names, and places. Axel was fascinated by this, but it also made him sad. They were so different, the two brothers. Maybe it was the age gap. Because he was four years older, they’d never played together, never shared toys. Moreover their parents treated them so differently. They put Axel on a pedestal in a way that upset the balance in the family, turning him into something he wasn’t and diminishing Erik. But how could he stop them? He could only do what he was meant to do.

‘We’ll be entering the harbour any minute now.’

Axel jumped at the sound of Elof’s dry voice behind him. He hadn’t heard him approach.

‘I’ll slip ashore as soon as we dock. I’ll be gone about an hour.’

Elof nodded. ‘Be careful, boy,’ he said, giving Axel one last look before he went astern to take over the helm.

Ten minutes later Axel took a good look around before he climbed up on to the wharf. He caught a glimpse of German uniforms in all directions on shore, but most of the soldiers seemed to be busy checking the boats. He felt his pulse quicken but forced himself to assume the same nonchalant air as the seamen who were going about their business loading and unloading the ships. He wasn’t carrying anything this time. The purpose of this trip was to pick something up. Axel didn’t know what was in the document that he’d been asked to smuggle back to Sweden. And he didn’t want to know. All he knew was the name of the recipient.

His instructions were quite clear. The man he was looking for would be standing at the far end of the harbour, wearing a blue cap and brown shirt. Keeping an alert eye on his surroundings, Axel approached the corner of the harbour where the man was supposed to be. So far it was all going to plan; he passed among the fishermen unnoticed by the Germans until he caught sight of a man who fit the description. He was stacking crates and seemed completely focused on the job. Axel headed towards him, careful not to shift his gaze or cast furtive glances – that would be like painting a target on his chest.

When he was almost level with the man, who appeared not to have spotted him, Axel picked up the closest crate and added it to a stack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his contact drop something on the ground next to the crates. Leaning down to pick up a crate, Axel first snatched up the rolled paper and stuffed it into his pocket. The handover had been successfully made, even though he and the man hadn’t yet exchanged a single glance.

Relief flooded through his veins. The handover was always the most critical moment. Once that was accomplished, there was much less risk that . . .

‘
Halt! Hände hoch!
’

The German commands came out of nowhere. Axel cast a surprised look at the man next to him, whose shamefaced expression told him what was going on. It was a trap. Either the entire assignment had been staged in order to capture him, or else the Germans had come across information about what was in play and forced those involved to help them set the trap. The Gestapo had probably been watching him from the moment he stepped ashore until the delivery was completed. And the document was now burning a hole in his pocket. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. The game was up.

Chapter 13

A loud knock on the door interrupted his morning ritual. Each morning the same routine. First shower. Then shave. Then he’d make breakfast, consisting of two eggs, a slice of rye bread with butter and cheese, and a big cup of coffee. Always the same breakfast, which he would eat in front of the TV. Another knock on the door. Annoyed, Frans got up and went to open it.

‘Hi, Frans.’ His son was standing on the doorstep with that harsh look in his eye that had become so familiar.

Frans could no longer remember a time when everything had been different. But he had to accept what he couldn’t change, and this was one of those things. Only in his dreams would he feel that small hand holding his; a faint memory from a time long, long ago.

With a barely audible sigh he moved aside to let his son come in.

‘Hi, Kjell,’ he said. ‘What brings you here today to visit your old father?’

‘Erik Frankel,’ said Kjell coldly, glaring at his father as if expecting a particular reaction.

‘I’m in the middle of breakfast. Come on in.’

Kjell followed him into the living room, taking a good look around. He’d never been inside the flat before.

Frans didn’t bother to offer his son coffee. He knew in advance what his response would be.

‘So, what’s this about Erik Frankel?’

‘I suppose you know he’s dead.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Frans nodded. ‘Yes, I heard that old Erik was dead. It’s a shame.’

‘Is that your sincere opinion? That it’s a shame?’ Kjell stared at his father, and Frans knew full well what was in his mind. He hadn’t come over as a son but as a journalist.

Frans took his time before answering. There was so much roiling below the surface. So many memories. But these were things he would never tell his son. Kjell wouldn’t understand. He’d condemned his father long ago, and now they stood on opposite sides of a wall so high that it was impossible to peer over the top. Frans knew he was largely the one to blame. Kjell hadn’t seen much of his father, the old jailbird, when he was a child. His mother had brought him along to the prison a few times, but the sight of that little face, filled with questions, in the cold, inhospitable visitors’ room had made Frans harden his heart and forbid any more visits. He’d thought he was doing what was best for the boy. Maybe he’d been wrong, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

‘Yes, I’m sorry that Erik’s dead. We knew each other when we were young, and I have only good memories of Erik. Later we went our separate ways . . .’ Frans threw out his hands. He didn’t need to explain to Kjell. The two of them knew all there was to know about taking separate paths.

‘But that’s not true. According to my source, you had contact with Erik later on. And Sweden’s Friends have shown an interest in the Frankel brothers. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?’ Kjell made a show of setting his notepad on the table, giving his father a defiant look as he put pen to paper.

Frans shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. He didn’t feel like playing this game any more. There was so much anger inside Kjell, and he could feel every ounce of it. It was the same all-consuming rage that had afflicted Frans ever since he could remember, landing him in trouble and destroying the things he held dear. His son had found a way to channel his anger, venting it upon politicians and leaders of industry in the newspaper column which bore his byline. Though they’d chosen opposite sides of the political spectrum, father and son had much in common. They shared the same capacity to hate, the same burning anger. That was what had made Frans feel so at home with the prison’s Nazi sympathizers during his first jail sentence. He’d understood the hatred that drove them. And they’d welcomed him because they viewed his anger as an asset, proof of his strength. Plus he was good at debating the issues – thanks to his father, who had schooled him in rhetoric. Belonging to the jail’s Nazi gang had given him status and power; by the time he left prison he’d grown into the role. It was no longer possible to differentiate him from his opinions. His politics defined him. He had a feeling that the same was true of Kjell.

‘Where were we?’ Kjell glanced down at his notepad, which was still blank. ‘Oh, right. Apparently you’ve been in contact with Erik.’

‘Only for the sake of our old friendship. Nothing significant. And nothing that could be linked to his death.’

‘So you say,’ replied Kjell, ‘but it’s up to others to determine whether it’s true or not. What sort of contact did you have? Did you threaten him?’

Frans snorted. ‘I don’t know where you got your information from, but I never threatened Erik Frankel. You’ve written enough about people who share my views to know that there are always a few . . . hotheads who can’t think rationally. All I did was to warn Erik about the risks.’

‘People who share your views,’ said Kjell with a scorn that verged on loathing. ‘You mean those lunatic throwbacks who think they can seal Sweden’s borders.’

‘Call them what you will,’ said Frans wearily. ‘But I didn’t threaten Erik Frankel. And now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.’

For a brief moment it looked as if Kjell might refuse. Then he stood up, leaned over his father, and fixed his eyes on him.

‘You were no father to me, and I can live with that. But I swear if you drag my son any deeper into this than you’ve already done, I’ll . . .’ He clenched his hands into fists.

Frans glanced up at him, calmly meeting his gaze. ‘I haven’t dragged your son into anything. He’s old enough to think for himself. He makes his own choices.’

‘Same way you did?’ spat Kjell and then stormed out, as if he could no longer stand to be in the same room with his father.

Frans didn’t move, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. As he listened to the front door slam, he thought about fathers and sons. And about the choices that were made for them, whether they liked it or not.

‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ Paula directed her question at both Martin and Gösta as she added coffee to the coffee-maker. Her colleagues merely nodded gloomily. Neither of them was particularly fond of Monday mornings. Besides, Martin hadn’t slept well all weekend.

Lately he’d started lying awake at night, worrying about the baby that was due to arrive in a couple of months. Not about whether the child was wanted. Because it was. Very much so. But it had only just dawned on him what a huge responsibility he was taking on. He would have to protect, raise, and take care of a tiny life, this little person, on all possible levels. It was this that kept him awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, while Pia’s big belly rose and fell in time with her gentle breathing. What he saw in the future was bullying and guns and drugs and sexual abuse and sorrows and misfortunes. When he thought about it, there was no end to all the terrible things that might befall their child. And for the first time he wondered whether he was really up to the task. But it was a bit late to be worrying about that now. In a couple of months the baby would be here.

‘What a cheerful pair you are.’ Paula sat down and rested her arms on the table as she regarded Gösta and Martin with a smile.

‘It should be against the law to be so cheerful on a Monday morning,’ said Gösta, getting up to refill his coffee cup. The water hadn’t finishing running through yet, so when he pulled out the pot, coffee dribbled on to the hotplate. Gösta didn’t even notice as he set the pot back in place after filling his cup.

‘Gösta,’ said Paula sternly as he turned his back on the mess he’d made and sat down at the table again. ‘You can’t just leave it like that. You need to wipe up the coffee you spilled.’

Gösta cast a glance over his shoulder at the puddle of coffee he’d left on the counter. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said morosely, and went over to clean it up.

Martin laughed. ‘Good to see that somebody knows how to keep you in line.’

‘Oh, right, typical woman. They always have to be so damned finicky.’

Paula was about to say something scathing when they heard a sound out in the corridor. A sound that didn’t belong to the normal noises of the station. The merry prattling of a child.

Martin craned his neck, an eager look on his face. ‘That must be . . .’ he began. Before he could finish the sentence Patrik appeared in the doorway, holding Maja in his arms.