The Return of the Dancing Master(111)

He was surprised that he’d been able to lose the memory of that holiday. So he had been here before, in these very parts. Why had he chosen not to remember? What had happened?

There was a woman somewhere in that memory. She had appeared just after they had pitched the tent. His father had seen her on the other side of the road, and had gone to greet her. Stefan and his sisters watched as their father shook hands with the woman and started talking, out of earshot. Stefan remembered asking his sisters if they knew who she was, but they had hissed at him to be quiet. That was a part of his recollection that raised a smile. His youth was marked by his sisters always telling him to be quiet, never listening to what he said, looking at him with a degree of contempt that indicated he would never be included in their games or their circle of friends, that he was too small, too stupid.

His father came back to join them; so did the woman. She was older than he was, with stripes of gray in her hair, and she was wearing the black-and-white uniform of a waitress. She reminded him of somebody, he now thought. And then the penny dropped: Elsa Berggren. Even if it wasn’t her. He could remember a smile, but also something off-putting, a ruthless streak. They had stood next to the tent, and she hadn’t been surprised by their arrival. Stefan remembered being rather worried—worried that his father would never go back to Kinna, and that his mother would stay in Kristianstad. The rest of the meeting with the unknown woman now fell into place. His father told them that her name was Vera, that she was from Germany, and then she’d shaken hands with them all in turn, first his sisters and then him.

Lindman stopped. Johansson was over to his left, and cursed as he tripped. The helicopter came rattling in at a low altitude and started circling over the valley below. He started walking again. There’s still another door to open, he thought. They had walked on the mountain all those years ago as well. No really long treks, always within easy distance from the hotel.

An unusually hot August evening in the mountains. He couldn’t see where his sisters were, but Vera and his father were in deck chairs next to the wooden cabin. They were laughing. Stefan didn’t like what he saw and went away to the back of the cabin. There was a door there, and he opened it. He had no idea if it was allowed, but now he was inside Vera’s house. Two cramped rooms and a low ceiling. Some photographs standing on a bureau. He strained his eyes to conjure up those pictures. A wedding photo. Vera and her husband wearing a uniform.

He recalled it now, as clear as day. The man in an army uniform, Vera dressed in white, smiling, a garland of flowers in her hair, or maybe it was a bridal headpiece. Next to the wedding photograph was another picture in a frame. A picture of Hitler. At that moment the door opened. Vera was there, with his father. She said something in German, or possibly Swedish with a German accent, he couldn’t remember. But she had been angry, he remembered that all right. His father had led him away and boxed his ears.

That was it. The memory ended as the blow landed. He had no recollection of the drive back to Kinna. Nothing about being squashed in the backseat, or feeling car sick. Nothing at all. A picture of Hitler, a box on the ears, nothing else.





Lindman shook his head. Thirty years ago his father had taken the children and visited a German woman who worked at a hotel in the mountains. Just under the surface, as on a photograph behind another photograph, was the whole of the Hitler era. It was just as Wetterstedt had said: nothing had completely gone away, it had simply taken on new forms, new means of expression, but the dream of white supremacy was still alive. His father went to see a woman called Vera, and punished his son when he saw something he shouldn’t have seen. Was there anything else? He searched his memory, but his father had never made any reference to it. After the beating there was nothing more.

The helicopter circled around once more, then flew off. Lindman let his gaze wander over the mountain, but all he actually saw were two photographs standing in a room with a low ceiling.

Soon after that the mist came down and they turned back. They came to the chalet at about 6 P.M. The helicopter dropped off two of the dog handlers, then disappeared in the direction of Östersund. The pilot had brought with him baskets containing sandwiches and coffee. Rundström always seemed to be talking into his walkie-talkie when he wasn’t on the phone. Lindman kept to the periphery. Larsson listened to a report from one of the forensic officers who had searched the chalet, and made notes. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and came over to Lindman.

“Well, we’ve found out a few things at least,” he said.

He balanced his cup on a stone and thumbed through his notebook.