The Return of the Dancing Master(55)

Lindman read on. On June 4 Molin records the date, then starts writing something that he crosses out. Nothing more until June 28. He notes in capital letters, in bold, that he’s “been enlisted,” and that he was to be taken to Germany as early as July 2. His notes exude triumph. He’s been accepted by the German army! Then he records that he buys an ice cream cone. Walks down the main street and looks at pretty girls who “embarrass me when I catch their eye.” This is the first comment of a personal nature in the diary. He licks an ice cream cone and eyes the girls. And is embarrassed.

The next note is hard to decipher. After a while Lindman realizes why. Molin is on a train, which is shaking. He’s on his way to Germany. He writes that he is tense but confident. And that he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by another Swede who has joined the Waffen-SS, Anders Nilsson from Lycksele. He notes that “Nilsson doesn’t have much to say for himself, and that suits me. I’m pretty reserved myself.” They are accompanied by some Norwegians, but he doesn’t record their names. The rest of the page is empty—apart from a large brown stain. Lindman imagined Molin spilling coffee onto his diary, then putting it away in his bag so as not to spoil it.

His next note is from Austria. It’s October by now.

October 12, 1942. Klagenfurt. I’ve almost finished basic training for the Waffen-SS. In other words, I’m about to become one of Hitler’s elite soldiers, and I’m determined to make the most of it. Wrote a letter that Erngren will take back to Sweden: he’s fallen ill, and been discharged.



Lindman turned to the pile of letters. The first one was dated October 11, from Klagenfurt. He noted that it had been written with the same pen Molin is using for his diary—a fountain pen that occasionally produced large blots. Lindman went over to one of the windows to read it. A bird flew off through the trees.

Dear Mother and Father!





I realize you may have been worried because I haven’t written before now. Father’s a soldier himself, and no doubt knows it’s not always easy to find time and a place to sit down with pen and paper. I just want to assure you, dear Mother and Father, that I am well. I came from Norway via Germany to France, where the basic training took place. And now I’m in Austria for weapons training. There are a lot of Swedes here, and also Norwegians, Danes, Dutchmen, and three boys from Belgium. Discipline is strict, and not everybody can handle it. I’ve kept my nose clean so far and even been praised by a Captain Stirnholz who’s in charge of part of the course here. The German army, and especially the Waffen-SS that I now belong to, must have the best soldiers in the world. I have to admit that we’re all waiting impatiently for the moment when we can get out there and start doing some good. The food is generally fine, but not always. But I’m not complaining. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come to Sweden. One is not entitled to any leave until one has been active for a certain length of time. Of course, I’m longing to see you again, but I grit my teeth and do my duty. And that is the great task of fighting for the new Europe and the defeat of Bolshevism.





Love from

Your son August.



The paper had turned yellow and become brittle. Lindman held it up to the light. The watermark, the German eagle, was very obvious. He stayed at the window. August Molin leaves Sweden, sneaks over the border into Norway, and joins the Waffen-SS. His motive is clear from the letter he sent to his parents. August is no mercenary. He joins the German war effort, fights for Nazism, in order to contribute to the emergence of a new Europe that requires the elimination of Bolshevism. At the age of nineteen, the boy is already a convinced Nazi.

Lindman returned to the diary. By the beginning of January 1943, Molin finds himself deep in Russia, on the eastern front. The optimism that had been in the diary to start with has changed into doubt, then despair, and finally fear. Lindman was struck by an extract from the winter:March 14. Location unknown. Russia. Freezing cold as ever. Scared stiff every night of losing a body part. Strömberg killed by shrapnel yesterday. Hyttler has deserted. If he’s caught, they’ll either shoot him or hang him. We are dug in and expecting a counterattack. I’m frightened. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of getting to Berlin and taking some dancing lessons. I wonder if I’ll ever make it.





He’s dancing, Lindman thought. He’s in some trench or another and he survives by dreaming about how he might be gliding around a dance floor.

Lindman examined the photographs. Molin is smiling. No sign of fear there. His smile is that of a real smooth operator. The fear is hidden behind these pictures, in photographs that were never taken. Unless he’d chosen not to keep any that betrayed his fear. So as not to remember.