When he looked out over the Sound he could see a number of vessels: small motorboats close to the shore, and a few larger yachts further out, but not one single ship.
In the warm sunshine, with a good night’s sleep behind him, it was difficult to recall exactly what had happened yesterday: boarding the ship, forcing the crew below, blowing a hole in the hull. There was no sign of the ship today.
The Homecomer passed the small campsite down by the water, then headed up towards the ridge. He could stay out of sight of the summer cottages along the coast road, because there was a narrow dip above the shore. It was man-made; it had been hacked out by stonemasons in days gone by as they worked their way down the rock. They had left behind a V-shaped cleft with gravel and broken stones at the bottom. The Homecomer moved cautiously so that he wouldn’t trip.
After a while, he saw the cairn above him; it looked like a large pile of stones up on the ridge. It was closer to the edge than he remembered; the cliff face must have suffered from erosion over the past seventy years.
Time smashed everything to pieces.
A few metres below the cairn there was a metal door set in a concrete frame; it seemed to lead right into the rock almost directly below the cairn. It looked like the entrance to a bunker — perhaps it was a defence post left over from the war?
The Homecomer glanced around, but he was still alone.
The metal door was secured with a heavy padlock and chain. He tugged at it, but to no avail. He would need a pair of bolt cutters.
After a minute or so, he walked away from the bunker and found a narrow flight of stone steps that took him up the hill and on to the ridge. He stood by the cairn for a while, silent and still, thinking of Sven.
Then he turned and looked inland, towards the houses on the other side of the coast road. Two rectangular bungalows with enormous windows and an expanse of wooden decking. Between them he could see a huge blue swimming pool.
He was close to the Kloss family now, just a few hundred metres away, but he could move around out of sight in the dip. And they didn’t know him. No one knew who he was.
Which made everything so much easier.
The New Country, July 1931
Aron and Sven are standing on deck with their luggage. They have arrived. The steamer SS Kastelholm is sliding into a large, unfamiliar harbour full of other ships; she slowly heaves to beside a broad stone quay. Aron watches as the city with its tall buildings and wide streets grows before his very eyes. Vast buildings with long rows of narrow windows.
Stockholm was nothing compared to this. Aron doesn’t recognize the name of the city; he just knows they have arrived in America.
The United States. The new country.
Sven carries their bags and tools down the gangplank; they are led through a dark stone doorway where everyone has to stand in line. Eventually, two broad-shouldered men in uniform arrive to interview them, with the help of an interpreter. Aron says nothing; Sven does all the talking. He shows their passports, holds up the spade, smiles at the interpreter and the grim-faced officials.
‘We’ve come here voluntarily.’
‘Of course,’ says the interpreter. ‘But what is it you intend to do here?’
‘We want to work, both of us. We want to build the new country.’
The interpreter confers with the guards, then he says, ‘What is your profession?’
‘We’re agricultural workers. I’ve worked in flour mills, but I’ve spent most of my time growing crops and tending cattle. And my stepson has attended school and helped me in his spare time.’
The interpreter checks Aron’s passport. ‘He’s only thirteen years old...’
‘Yes, but he’s big and strong and hardworking.’
One of the guards shows Sven a picture, a portrait of a man with sharp eyes, his chin raised. ‘Do you know who this is?’
‘Your leader,’ Sven replies.
‘What’s his name?’
Aron hears Sven say an unfamiliar name without the slightest hesitation, and the guards nod with satisfaction.
Finally, Sven gives the men some of their dollar bills. That does the trick. Their passports are stamped, travel documents are issued and they are allowed into the new country.
Sven and Aron remain in the city for three days; they stay in a small hotel near a big railway station and wander the wide, crowded streets. Aron hears lots of foreign languages but doesn’t understand a single word. Everyone around them appears to know where they are going, but Sven seems somehow lost. In the cramped room, his mood deteriorates, and he hits Aron several times.
In the evenings he goes out, and is gone for hours. Aron can only wait by the window.
On the second evening, Sven is much more cheerful when he returns. Everything is arranged; he has met someone who speaks Swedish.
‘We’re moving on,’ he tells Aron. ‘There are lots of Scandinavians in the forests in the north. They’ve got work for us up there.’
Aron would like to spend longer in the city, but he has no say in the matter.
They leave by train the following day. The concrete buildings disappear, the countryside takes over and they travel north through a green and brown landscape of vast plains, virgin coniferous forests, wide rivers and immense lakes.
The train is packed with optimistic workers, all equipped with their own tools — saws, pickaxes and spades.
Sven and Aron are with them in the third-class carriage. The dollar bills are almost gone. They have hardly any food, but at one end of the carriage you can buy steaming-hot tea. Everything else on the train is freezing cold.
But Sven keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the route ahead, one hand resting on his spade.
Jonas
It was almost twelve o’clock by the time Jonas got back to Villa Kloss. He had only pretended to call home from the Davidssons’ house, just to appease Gerlof. No one in his family knew where he had spent the night. If he gave the game away, Mats and their cousins would probably chuck him off the rocks.
On the way home he had gazed out across the bay, but there was no sign of any ships and no dead seamen had floated ashore. The sun was shining and the breeze was warm. People were swimming and sunbathing by the jetty as if it were an ordinary summer’s day, but Jonas’s heart was pounding.
He had reached Villa Kloss. Might as well go straight in.
He slid open the glass door of Uncle Kent’s house, expecting to see everyone gathered around the long dining table: Uncle Kent, Dad, Mats and the cousins, all worried and with lots of questions, but no one seemed to have noticed his absence. They weren’t even there.
Only Paulina was around, standing in the kitchen, stacking dishes after the party. Everyone else was probably still in bed, or else they’d gone off to the Ölandic. Jonas had a drink of water and went over to his chalet. On the way he met Mats and Urban, both wearing green shorts and sunglasses. They were carrying two racing bikes.
‘Hi, bro.’
‘How’s things?’ Urban said.
‘Fine,’ Jonas replied.
Mats stopped and spoke quietly. ‘We told Dad you stayed over with a friend last night. That’s what you did, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, kind of... I slept in a boathouse.’
‘Good... I should think that was a lot more fun than Kalmar. The film was crap.’
Jonas nodded and thought about dead men on the deck of a ship. And then about Africa. He could hear jungle drums pounding in his head, and he just wanted to ring his mum in Huskvarna. Ask her to come and pick him up, take him home.