Chapter 15

Gerd was lying in a bed so white it hurt his eyes. She had a bandage across her throat and pads on her cheek. A thin plastic tube from a bag on a pole snaked into her arm. The nice nurse had removed the one from her other arm, saying it wasn’t needed.

Someone knocked on the door. Jonas was not entirely awake and he had to think a while before saying “Come in.”

It was the young police officer who had taken care of Nurket. He was carrying the squirming puppy in his arms. He bent down and laid the bundle next to Jonas’ cot. Nurket had one leg in a splint and his fur had been shaven off his side. He sported white bandages across his entire middle, yet he tried to stand and lick Jonas’ hand. Jonas bent over him.

“You good dog,” he cooed. “You are the best, the bravest dog I have ever known. You can have filet mignon every day for all I care. Such a brave dog.” He petted what was pettable of Nurket.

“He just wouldn’t rest,” said the officer. “The vet said he could have knocked him out, but I thought he’d be better off here.” Jonas lifted Nurket gently onto Gerd’s bed. The left leg stuck out at an angle, so Jonas put him on his side. Nurket sniffed closely at the sleeping woman and was asleep in an instant.

Just as the officer was leaving, an ICU nurse poked her head in the door. Having a dog on your bed in intensive care was probably against a hundred regulations, but the woman just smiled. “Just make sure he doesn’t pull her IV out,” she said to Jonas and softly closed the door on them.

The flowers started arriving. Roses, tulips, and a whole lot of flowers Jonas couldn’t name. Who were they from? He stretched and got up off the uncomfortable cot to investigate. Jutta and Henrik, Nanna and Peder; here was even an enormous spray of lilacs from someone that just signed her name as Nora. Lilacs in February? Must have come from Peru or somewhere. A little arrangement of snowdrops and daisies said “I’m painting again because of you. Get well soon because I can’t wait to show you.” It was signed Adriana. Mrs. Andresen sent orchids.

This was the good, the bad, and sometimes the ugly of living in a very small town. No matter how you tried to be anonymous, people knew you. And actually, they cared about you. There was even an unsigned card with Jonas’ name on it accompanying a posy of some blue kind of flowers. The card read “We don’t only love you because you love her.” Jonas smiled. If that wasn’t Anita Vadoma he’d eat his non-existent hat.

The nurse brought breakfast of sorts. Egg white omelette? Jonas hesitated to wake Gerd, but her eyes were already open. He fed her a few spoonfuls while Nurket snored at her side. She petted him lightly but he didn’t wake. Gerd closed her eyes.

Another knock on the door revealed the older of the two women officers that had helped them last night. She offered her hand.

“I’m lieutenant Gadhi,” she said to Jonas. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Not at all, but not here,” Jonas replied, stroking his hand over his unshaven chin. “Let’s go to the cafeteria.”

Downstairs in the cafeteria, the day was already bustling. People of all ages in scrubs of blues and greens ordered strong coffee and hurried out. Relatives with worried faces made their cappuccinos last as long as possible and looked down at their tables. Jonas and lieutenant Gadhi grabbed a table by the window where a young man who had just received a text message got to his feet in a hurry and speed-walked out.

“What can you tell me about yesterday?” she asked mildly.

“I don’t know where to start,” began Jonas. “I know, ‘start at the beginning, go on to the end, then stop.’ But I think the start was nearly 70 years ago.”

Lieutenant Gadhi nodded, keeping quiet so the man would continue talking.

“Let me start with what I do know,” continued Jonas. “Gerd, that’s Gerd Ljoset, found Einar Iversen dead in his boat out at Treungene. The ambulance driver who met her boat in Vika was that despicable asshole, Dag Jeltzen, your sworn officer moonlighting. He knew who Einar was and of his connection to his own grandfather, Gunnar Katte Jeltzen. Dag Eigil is a neo-Nazi. Gunnar was a Nazi collaborator. The swine wanted to exonerate his grandfather, as if that were possible. Somehow he found out that the librarian, what’s her name again?, had given Gerd a box of Einar’s mementos from the war. Eigil wanted those. He harassed her three times, getting crazier and crazier each time. The last one was yesterday.”

Officer Gadhi nodded. “We have had information about his affiliations,” she said neutrally. “What I don’t understand is the connection between Einar Iversen and Dag Eigil’s grandfather.”

Jonas sighed. “I don’t know, either,” he said. “But Gerd has been telling me over and over that everyone in town over 60 years of age is talking about it. At Einar’s funeral two days ago, one of the old geezers came up to Gerd and myself muttering about how Einar deserved his fate. Deserved to die? We all die, eventually,” he added, at a loss.

“Do you know who that man was?”

“No, but I can describe him.”

“So you think this enmity came out of something that happened as far back as the Second World War?”

“I don’t know,” said Jonas, sighing. “I really don’t. But to me it doesn’t matter. I want to protect Gerd. Whatever happened in the war is long past. I want that assailant in jail for the rest of his natural life, which I may hope will be short, and gone from ours forever.”

The middle-aged police lieutenant looked him with calm and certain eyes. “He will be,” she said.

They took their leave, Jonas promising to call the station when Gerd was well enough to give a statement. “Don’t hold your breath,” he thought. He took the stairs back up to ICU to clear his head.

In her room, Gerd was still sleeping her drug-induced sleep. Nurket, with probably no drugs whatsoever, was cuddled up to her as close as he could get and whuffling in his sleep. Jonas strode aimlessly around the room, moving flowers and looking out the window. The snowstorm seemed to have abated. He walked to Gerd’s bed and stroked her forehead. Did she smile a little? He thought so.

There was a knock on the door. What was this, a goddamn open house? He growled “Come in” with bad grace. A middle-aged man with brown hair – what there was of it – and a meek expression stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”

“Who the hell are you?” Jonas was not up to being courteous.

“My name is Harald Katte Jeltzen,” said the man, as if that explained everything.

The asshole’s father. Jonas thought vaguely that he had met the man at the funeral, but he wasn’t sure. He made a gesture that said ‘come in’ but not exactly with warmth.

Harald Jeltzen walked slowly into the room. By the window there was a small table with two chairs. Jonas gestured for him to sit down. He waited.

“I need to tell you,” began the small man. Jonas said nothing.

“I need to tell you why my son is fixated on the war. I don’t excuse him, don’t get me wrong. He has been a difficult boy since he was just a toddler. But I’d like you to know.” Jonas nodded for him to continue.

“My father was one of a large transport to Sweden in 1943,” Harald began. “My mother, who was Swedish and who met him there, always told me that my father was a war hero. But I saw them, you see. I was only a kid, maybe 7, and I had followed my dad to his poker game in the woods. It might have been 1952 or ’53. I admired him so much. I was probably not the strong Aryan son he wanted, but I wanted to be like him. So I followed him.”

The quiet man took a breath, his eyes lost in the past.

“They were sitting in a clearing with cards, in a circle. One man pulled out an envelope and threw it at my dad. He opened it. Then there was a lot of shouting. They pulled my dad to a tree where a giant of a man was waiting and they pulled him up like up the gym ropes at school. I didn’t understand. I thought it was a game. I knew I would be in trouble for spying on my dad so I ran home.”

Jonas still said nothing. Harald Katte continued.

“Later they told me my dad was dead. I didn’t focus on it right then because my little sister was so poorly. She died right about the same time. She was my angel, my little butterfly. She was so small you could practically see right through her. Dad was hardly ever home anyway. My soul went to heaven with her the day we buried her.”

Jonas thought a long time. “What did you tell your own son about his grandfather?”

The shrunken man shuddered. “I was never quite right after Gloriana died. Our mom passed away when I was in my teens. I never intended to marry or, God forbid, to have children. But there was this woman who was nice to me, Brit, and when she said she was pregnant, I married her. She was a whore and it was a disaster from the start. She left me soon after Dag Eigil was born. I had to bring him up myself and what do I know of bringing up a headstrong boy? I’m sure I told him fantastic stories of his heroic grandfather; everyone does, don’t they? But he just got worse and worse. In middle school he was expelled twice. How he managed to pass the entrance exams to the police academy I’ll never know. But I was very proud of him then.”

The too-soon-old man hunched his shoulders. Jonas felt pity. “It always looks different from the other side of the fence,” he thought.

“It’s not your fault,” he said to the distraught father. “Everyone makes his own choices in life. It’s not your fault.”

Harald Katte looked up at him. He was grateful but not convinced. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Then he looked over at Gerd’s bed. “What can I do? How can I make amends for my son?”

Jonas finally had his wits about him. He had no more anger in his heart. “You have done wonders just by coming here. There is nothing to forgive. Gerd and I will survive and your son will meet his fate. It is done. Mr. Jeltzen, go in peace.”

The stooped, lonely man smiled for what was probably the first time in many years. “May I come out to visit you now and then?” he asked tentatively.

“Of course. We’ll look forward to seeing you,” said Jonas, and meant it. Harald Katte Jeltzen, burdened by sins not of his own making, took his leave.

Jonas was left, philosophizing. “Why do we do this?” he thought. “Why do we have this infernal drive to push everyone else down and climb all over them to some imagined summit? Why do we believe there isn’t enough space for us all? Maybe there isn’t.” He thought of his own upbringing, so cold and distant. “If someone had told me of a hero grandfather who was wrongly accused, I probably would have sworn my life to avenge him as well. There but for fortune.”

A male ICU nurse bustled in and bustled about. He made notes on the chart on Gerd’s bed, smiled at the sleeping Nurket, and nodded at Jonas. As he opened the door, someone else was standing outside. A big, tall someone with white hair in disarray around his face.

It was pilot Joacim Corneliussen. “May I come in?”

Since Gerd was still in narcotics heaven, Jonas didn’t see why not. He nodded at the old man. He was leaning on a cane, but his crutches were gone. He limped into the room, heavily. Jonas inclined his head to the uncomfortable plastic chair Harald had just vacated.

Joacim grabbed the edge of the table, stuck his leg out in front of him, and cumbersomely got down into the chair. He looked at the spotted table-top. Jonas observed him, saying nothing. Without preamble, the old man began his story.

“It was the winter of 42, you know. The very core of the earth was frozen. We had nothing, no electricity, no firewood, practically no food. Children didn’t play. That winter, a German destroyer, the Sieg, went aground out at Hysebåene. The sea ice was meters thick out to Ørneredet, man. They must have lost their radio because the Germans sent up signal flags. Even on Lyhomen with binoculars I could read them. ‘Save our souls’ they said. No one wanted to save their souls.” He took a breath.

Jonas waited. He knew Joacim would get around to the whole story sooner or later.

“Frank Åge Samuelsen, that miserable gimp from Vågen, borrowed a horse from a neighbor and pulled a rowboat out to the end of the sea ice. He brought a girl back. A German girl.”

Joacim paused. How do you tell of the fury that poisons men’s hearts when they see their sisters and mothers getting grey-faced and thin while the invaders gorge on chocolate and all the potatoes left in the county?

“Tell me, los.”

“A month later, Einar and Gunnar had discovered that Frank Åge was sheltering the enemy. Lexis was there, too; he was a loose cannon. Did you know I saved him from drowning? Worst rescue I ever made. Well, the three of them were up on the hill at Vågen playing their usual poker when they heard the girl. She was singing, as if the world was just fine. They all raped her. I don’t know any other way to say it. I found out later when I discovered Einar getting drunk on stolen beer. He told me. I saw Gunnar and Alexis that same day. Gunnar was crowing about his “conquest,” and Alexis was just blank as always. I never told anyone. I should have told. I should have told.”

Even at this, Jonas was still lost. “So what does all this have to do with that miserable son-of-a-bitch stalking Gerd? She could have died, you know,” he said severely. Joacim nodded.

“We hanged him,” he said simply.

“Hanged who? Or whom?” Jonas needed his cases straight.

“We hanged him, the informer, the collaborator, the devil who had sent untold patriots to their starvation and death. Gunnar Katte.”

Jonas thought of what Harald had seen. Had the boy realized that his father was being executed?

“Gunnar had a son, Harald. In fact, he also had a small daughter who died of consumption that same year. I never knew until long afterwards. Einar told me.”

Jonas waited.

“Einar was always repentant about the rape even though she was German and all that. Alexis and Gunnar never had any remorse, but Einar was different. Some years later, after they had all returned from Sweden, Einar learned deep-sea diving and found the wreck of the Sieg, down there at Hysebåene. He brought up chests of silver, silver that was probably intended to pay the Nazis’ way where they couldn’t bully. He kept on lending us money, all of us. We were all indebted to Einar as we played our silly poker games out there in the woods. Gunnar was the biggest debtor.”

“I still don’t see how Gunnar’s son could have killed Einar,” Jonas felt as if someone was telling two stories and he couldn’t discern one from the other.

“Harald? No, Harald never killed anyone. Maybe he should have, but that’s between him and God,” said Joacim.

“No, Harald didn’t kill Einar Iversen. Frank Åge Samuelsen did.”

“Why?”

“You need to understand where Frank Åge came from. His father was a wife-beating monster of the old school. He abhorred his cripple of a son. When Frank Åge rescued that German girl from the Sieg, he thought he had found someone to love him. No one had ever loved him. Einar, Gunnar, and Alexis raped her and got her pregnant. She hanged herself. Frank Åge never forgave them, nor me.”

“But you weren’t there, los. Or were you?”

“No, I wasn’t, but that’s no excuse. I found out about it. But I didn’t tell. I never told anyone what they had done to her.” 

“So how did Frank Åge kill Einar?” There was still no connection in Jonas’ mind.

“I’m not sure he did,” the pilot replied. “It hardly matters. Frank Åge has been after us all these years. Gunnar died without his help and he resents that. Alexis died under suspicious circumstances. Even our guide to Sweden, Kampainen, died too suddenly. I don’t know, boy, but I do think it’s soon over,” the old pilot shook his head to clear the old memories, but he couldn’t shake them off. “I will live with my shame to the end of my days.”

Jonas couldn’t think of anything to say. He just nodded, still as confused as ever. Joacim looked over at the sleeping Gerd.

“Take good care of her,” he said quietly. “The love of a good woman is above rubies.”

Pilot Joacim ponderously lifted himself from the chair. Jonas stayed seated. When the pilot reached the door, he said, “Thank you.”

Los Joacim Corneliussen raised his head, surprised. His tired eyes looked into Jonas’s. “Bless you, boy,” he said and left.

Daylight was fading. Jonas sat at the rickety Formica table staring at nothing. Gerd made a low sound, the first she had made since they brought her in and sequestered her in this white bed of tubes and monitors.

“Baby,” Jonas was by her side in a second.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Hei.”

“Hei to you sweetheart.” He couldn’t think of what to say. “How are you feeling?” didn’t seem worth much. She had to be feeling like shit.

They sat there holding hands for a long while. Finally Gerd said, “Where am I?”

“You’re in the South County Hospital, honey. Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

She didn’t reply right away. At last she said, “Nurket?”

Jonas guided her hand, the one without the IV, over to Nurket’s fur. She stroked him softly.

“I do remember,” she said gently. “Nurket was barking his little head off by the shed door and I went to investigate. That awful man kicked him, really hard. How is he?”

Jonas didn’t think she meant Dag Eigil. “He’ll be OK,” he said. “The vet said so. He has two bruised ribs and a broken leg, but he’ll recover. He’s the best dog.” He had a sudden thought. “You’re not going to look for his original owners, are you?”

“He’s mine,” said Gerd sleepily. “Ours. He’s our best dog.” And she closed her eyes again.

Nurses came and went, checking monitors and whatnots. In the afternoon, a doctor came in and introduced himself as Overlege Brekkane. He looked at the scribbles on Gerd’s chart and smiled at Jonas. “Quite a tough little lady you have here.”

“Doctor, when can we go home?” There was nothing more pressing on Jonas’ mind.

“Probably tomorrow. Her throat wound luckily didn’t hit anything vital. Can she talk?” Jonas nodded.

“Her voice sounds normal?”

“Yes,” said Jonas with infinite relief.

“Good. Her other injuries are superficial. The slash on her cheek will heal without stitches. The abrasions on her wrists and ankles are from the restraints. As far as we can tell, there are no internal injuries.”

Jonas looked at the young physician, only now noticing the grey at his temples. “You have seen such injuries before?” he asked in a low voice.

“Unfortunately yes. I did two tours in Iraq,” the somber man replied. “I tried to treat the prisoners of Abu Ghraib. They were broken not only in body from their torture but also in spirit. Yes, I have seen the signs of gagging and excessive restraints before.”

Jonas couldn’t speak. He only looked at the doctor, who was taking Gerd’s pulse with infinite care. “Doctor Brekkane, will you testify if it comes to a trial?” Jonas tried to sound normal.

“Of course. But I don’t think it will be necessary. The police tell me that the assailant they have in custody is near psychotic. I do believe he will live out his life in the psychiatric unit of the regional penitentiary.” The physician finished his examination of Gerd’s records. He turned to Jonas.

“I want to tell you something,” he began, hesitantly. “But first I need to ask you some rather personal questions. Is that OK?”

“Of course.”

Overlege Brekkane seemed to be marshalling his forces. Abruptly, he asked Jonas, “How well do you love her?”

“What?”

“I don’t mean to pry into your private life. But a person who has been traumatized doesn’t always behave the way the rest of us do. They may have enormous mood swings or they may start sympathizing with their torturers. The Stockholm syndrome, you know. It’s real,” he added, as an afterthought.

“That why I ask you, do you want to, are you capable of helping her heal? It’s no shame to say no. Please believe me, the best for Ms. Ljoset is not pious political correctness. Only bone-naked truth can provide the salve that heals her wounds. Mr. van der Linden,” he continued, “we physicians can heal her physical trauma. We can stitch wounds and pump her so full of narcotics that she feels nothing. But only constant, persistent love and tolerance will help heal her spirit.” The young-old doctor couldn’t meet Jonas’ eyes so he looked out the window.

Jonas felt his mouth stretch into a smile that knew no bounds. “I swear to you that I love her beyond measure, beyond convention, and to the end of eternity,” he said simply. “I’ll always be there for her,” he said, “whether she wants me to or not.”

Overlege Brekkane smiled at the scraggly, unshaven man by the bedside. “OK, then,” he said softly. He made his final checks and left.

Jonas spent a long time observing how the light in the single window changed second by second from grey to black. When all outside the window and the walls had disappeared, there was a knock on the door. Two heads peeked around the doorjamb. Jonas didn’t recognize them. They appeared to be teenagers. “Can we come in?”

Two teenage girls reluctantly entered the sickroom. The taller one asked “Is she awake?”

“Not at the moment,” answered Jonas. “Can I help you?”

An older woman showed up behind the girls. The three stepped into the room and shut the door behind them. The dark-haired, younger girl seemed to gather her senses first. “I want to tell her,” she said apropos nothing. “I want to tell her that she saved my sister and me.”

Jonas had no idea who they were and his face must have shown it. The mother – it must be their mother, she looked like the taller girl – broke in. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Eva Gundersen and Peppi and Kaia and my daughters.”

Jonas replied by rote, “How are you?”

The woman replied, “We are OK, now. Ms. Ljoset came to my house a couple of days ago and she made me see how I had kept accepting what should not be accepted. You see,” she continued, looking straight at Jonas, “my husband abused us. I am forever ashamed that I did not stop it before, but perhaps you know something of abduction and mental abuse?” The mousy little woman did not seem so meek any more. “When Ms. Ljoset came to my house and accidentally saw my husband’s means of enforcement, I knew it was the end. Then Peppi and Kaia here,” she smiled at them with a shower of love and protectiveness, “made me call 911. The person who responded was a Detective Overholt. He looked at everything and waited with us until Andreas came home. Of course he went berserk. The detective slapped handcuffs on him and took him in on a charge of domestic abuse. He promised us that Andreas would not hurt us again. And it is all because of this woman, this Gerd Ljoset.”

All four of them looked over at the bed where Gerd was sleeping. Nurket began to wake up and opened his eyes to look at them.

“Thank you,” said Jonas simply. “We’ll be back on Lyholmen tomorrow or the day after. I’ll call you when she is well enough to receive visitors. Do you have a phone number?”

Peppi scribbled a number on the back of a Netflix receipt. Finally, she spoke. “Most people don’t give a fuck, Mister. Ms. Ljoset did. Kaia and I want to help her with her farm and her nets. We’d like that very much,” she added.

“I’m sure she would appreciate the help,” said Jonas, now getting quite tired of the parade of people. “We’ll talk soon, OK?”

The trio left. Jonas was beginning to wonder when dinner time was here at the sick-house, when the door pushed open one more time. Wasn’t this a hospital? How could they expect anyone to get better when there was this constant traffic of people?

An old man with a comb-over peeked around the door. Jonas vaguely recognized him. The little man limped into the room and stopped. His voice was smoky, reedy.

“You wonder why they died, don’t you?” he asked, conversationally. Jonas was completely in the dark. Died? Who?

“You see,” said the little man, “they killed my angel. Of course they had to die for their sins. That Frenchman, Alexis, I hounded him to his end. The guide who brought them out of danger to Sweden, of course he had to die, too. The bastards caught the evil Katte before I could get to him; he never deserved such mercy. I was the one who gave Einar-the-holy the bottle of 96 proof for his little journey to Treungene. He was always such a sot, Einar. Never could withstand the lure of John Barleycorn,” he grinned evilly with his few remaining teeth. “There is only one left, you know,” he confided in Jonas, “and that is Joacim-mr-perfect-Corneliussen. I have reminded him every year since my angel died. They will all die, and slowly.”

The old man looked perfectly demented. At that moment, Gerd opened her eyes. She looked at him; he looked at her. At last, she stretched out her unencumbered hand to the little troll and said softly,

“Te absolvo.”