Occasionally, he hears muttered prayers in Swedish or Finland-Swedish. Aron would like to stop and listen.
But Vlad does not listen to the enemy; he simply takes aim and silences the flow of words.
The guards have brought white cabbage, tinned meat and vodka to the gravel pit, and while a team of prisoners is busy shovelling sand over the bodies Vlad and his men can sit down and eat. After his time in the labour camp, he has built himself up with regular, decent food, but he still doesn’t drink alcohol. He gives away his ration to his colleagues. This makes him popular, but it also means that the aim of some guards is even worse after their break.
At the end of this particular day, a black car sweeps into the gravel pit. Commandant Fajgin steps out, accompanied by two other men. One is short, the other tall.
Fajgin stands swaying by the car for a moment. He is the camp commandant now; Polynov was dismissed because of his drinking, but Fajgin has not learned from this. He has started to work his way through his predecessor’s stock of vodka. Right now, he is talking and gesticulating, but his two companions appear to be treating him like thin air. They step forward to watch the last prisoners fall.
Vlad recognizes the shorter man: Grigorenko, a local Party secretary. The tall man is younger, thirty-five or forty, and is wearing a neatly pressed NKVD uniform with four stripes on the collar tab. A major.
Eventually, the trio begins to move towards the grave and the guards.
‘Attention!’ Fajgin bellows.
So this is an inspection of men and weapons. Perhaps the major has been instrumental in sending prisoners to their final destination and wants to see how they are dealt with.
But, in fact, he wants more than that.
Vlad realizes later that Fajgin must have boasted about his being a crack shot, because he jerks his head in Vlad’s direction. The major stops in front of Vlad. He has a dark-blue scar running across his forehead, possibly from a blow with a sabre during the civil war. He looks Vlad and the old army greatcoat up and down with a critical expression, then turns his attention to the battered rifle, still warm in Vlad’s hands.
‘You never hesitate, Comrade?’
‘No, Major.’
‘You are always on your guard against the enemies of our country?’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘You work hard and sleep well?’
‘Always, Major.’
The officer nods. He reaches out a black-gloved hand and draws Vlad to one side, away from the others. ‘Are you happy here in the north, Comrade Jegerov, in the cold and the wind?’
Vlad understands that he can be honest on this occasion, so he shakes his head.
‘The People’s Commissariat needs more people in Leningrad,’ the major says. He makes a point of turning his back on Fajgin, and adds, ‘We need people with a steady hand, people who can do their job. People who are sober.’
‘I drink nothing but water,’ Vlad says.
‘Comrade Jegerov,’ the major says, leaning closer, ‘do you know what chernaya rabota is?’
‘No, Major.’
‘It is secret work in Leningrad. Black work. Hard work with long hours, often at night, in the fight against the enemy.’
Vlad stands up very straight.
Leningrad. The big city. And the gateway to Aron’s homeland.
He is ready.
Gerlof
It was Saturday evening, and Gerlof was in his cottage, after spending another oppressively hot day in the garden. His head and body felt stupefied by all the long, sunny days. They sucked all the energy out of both him and nature.
He was just about to go to bed when the phone rang, which was unusual at this late hour. The boys were in their rooms, so Gerlof picked up the receiver and answered quietly, ‘Davidsson.’
His hearing aid was still switched on, but there was only silence in his ear. No voices, just a faint rushing sound in the background.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
Who would call at this time of night and not introduce themselves? It was unlikely to be John, or either of his daughters. Gerlof began to suspect who was on the other end of the line.
‘Aron?’ he said.
There was no reply, but he was still convinced.
‘Aron,’ he said again, more firmly this time. ‘Talk to me.’
After a few long seconds, a male voice spoke in his ear. ‘So you remember the knocking.’
Gerlof swallowed in the darkness; his mouth was suddenly dry. It was an old man’s voice on the phone, but it was as hard as granite. The voice of a battle-scarred soldier.
He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. And so do you.’
‘I do.’
Gerlof waited, then went on. ‘You were frightened that day, when you and I were standing in the grave on the lid of the coffin. We were both frightened, weren’t we?’
Another silence, then the voice spoke again. ‘Kloss was knocking because of me.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gerlof said.
‘He wanted to scare me away.’
‘Why?’
There was no reply, but he heard something else in the background, a faint buzzing sound. Some kind of electrical machine had been switched on near the phone, and the buzzing was accompanied by a muted metallic whinnying.
Gerlof continued, ‘Edvard Kloss died when a barn wall came down on top of him. I’ve always wondered if it fell over by itself, or if someone gave it a helping hand...’
He paused, but there was still no response.
‘According to the gossip, it was one of his brothers. Either Sigfrid or Gilbert had loosened the props that were holding the wall up, and gave it a push when Edvard was standing in the right place... But, of course, it could have been someone else. Some disgruntled worker.’
The rushing sound and the strange buzzing were still going on.
‘I found out recently that your stepfather, Sven Fredh, used to work for the Kloss brothers, and that he moved the old cairn for them. But that didn’t go too well, did it?’
‘It fell down,’ the voice said. ‘The brothers were on Sven’s back all the time; they really got to him, and he couldn’t work out how to arrange the stones. They started rolling towards his legs, and he ended up with a limp for the rest of his life.’
‘And Sven wanted compensation from Edvard Kloss?’
‘Yes, but of course Kloss insisted it was Sven’s fault.’
‘You were injured, too, Aron... I remember the day we met up in the churchyard — you had a long scratch on your forehead. How did you get that, Aron?’
Silence.
‘It’s so long ago,’ Gerlof said. ‘I think you can tell me now.’
For the first time, the voice at the other end of the line sounded stressed. ‘It was after the barn wall had come down. When I crawled in underneath it.’
‘So you were there that night?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t bring the wall down on top of Edvard Kloss.’
‘In that case, it was Sven,’ Gerlof said. ‘He brought the wall down, then he sent you in to get Edvard’s wallet. Is that what happened?’
‘Yes. Edvard had to pay.’
‘Pay what, Aron?’
‘What he owed Sven for his crushed foot... and for my mother.’
Gerlof listened, trying to think. ‘So he had harmed Astrid in some way?’
‘Harmed?’ the voice said quietly. ‘You could say that.’
Gerlof didn’t ask any more questions. He had already suspected who Aron Fredh’s father was; it wasn’t the first time a serving girl had ended up pregnant by the master of the house.