Here in the village, her audience consisted only of ordinary holidaymakers who wanted to relax. Playing records in the May Lai Bar had been something completely different over the past week; it had felt like playing in a tomb. The upper-class brats who had been there at the beginning of July, throwing their money around, had moved on to Gotland or Stockholm, leaving the place empty and much too quiet.
However, here at the restaurant, there were people to entertain, and she was enjoying herself.
‘Thank you!’ she said in response to scattered applause. ‘And now here’s a song by Olle Adolphson, which you just might recognize...’
It was a warm evening with a golden sunset. Lisa brought out the old Swedish songs about the beauty and fragility of the summer, knowing that all this would soon be over. It was almost August. The summer was short, there was no denying it. Life wasn’t that simple; you couldn’t just drift around doing whatever you wanted while the sun was shining.
She had less than a week left in Stenvik, then she would be going home, back to the city and its exhaust fumes. Back to Silas, to answer his questions about why she hadn’t sent any money, and what she was going to do about it.
The setting sun was in Lisa’s eyes, but she tried to focus on her audience. Most tables were full, but right at the back she could just see a man on his own, with a glass of water in front of him. He was only a dark shadow against the sun, but he was nodding in time with the music.
Was it the man from the campsite? Was he watching her? Did he want the wooden box back?
Concentrate, she thought.
She closed her eyes and sang, trying to forget about the man. Otherwise, she would lose it.
She managed two more songs, with her eyes shut. When she looked up, the man had disappeared.
‘Thank you!’ she shouted, and it was over. She slid off her stool and made her way into the darkness of the restaurant.
Niklas Kloss was standing by the till. He had seemed tired and distracted over the past week, moving at a completely different speed from the waiters and waitresses and spending most of his time hanging around by the chiller cabinet. She presumed that the outbreak of gastroenteritis at the Ölandic had given the whole Kloss family sleepless nights.
‘Well done,’ he said.
That was it. Time to go home. But as Lisa left the restaurant, someone stepped out of the shadows. A slim figure, moving quietly across the gravel.
‘Lisa?’
It was Paulina, and she was smiling a little uncertainly. ‘Nice music,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
Lisa wondered how long Paulina had been standing there listening. Why hadn’t she sat down at one of the tables? Was she shy, or didn’t she have any money?
‘You are going back now, Lisa?’ she said, nodding towards the campsite.
‘Yep,’ Lisa said, picking up her guitar case. ‘Back to the caravan for a rest before my last gigs.’
Paulina walked beside her in the darkness, past the maypole with its withered garlands. As they were crossing the coast road, she jerked her head towards Villa Kloss and said quietly, ‘He has a suggestion.’
‘Oh yes?’
Lisa didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was — Kent Kloss, of course.
‘He has a job for you. For us,’ Paulina went on.
‘Another gig?’
‘No, a different kind of job... here in the village.’
Lisa looked at Paulina. ‘What does he really want? Is he exploiting you?’
Paulina gazed at her for a moment, trying to work out what Lisa meant, then she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not like that. I just work for him.’
She sounded so definite that Lisa was sorry she had asked the question and quickly changed the subject. ‘So how did you get the job here?’
‘An advert. He put an advert in lots of newspapers, and I answered.’
‘Just like me,’ Lisa said with a sigh.
Paulina looked at her. ‘He’s going to talk to us soon. He wants more help.’
‘I know,’ Lisa said wearily. ‘I’ve already helped him, down on the campsite.’
She knew that this wasn’t a request for help, of course. Kent Kloss didn’t make requests. He gave orders.
‘He’ll pay,’ Paulina said.
‘Will he, indeed? And is this job legal?’
Paulina didn’t say anything, and Lisa shrugged. Legal or not, she had her price.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘In that case, maybe I’ll help him one last time before I go home.’
The Homecomer
There was a hotel in the village on the coast to the north of Stenvik — a huge white colossus not unlike the Ölandic Hotel, right by the harbour in Långvik.
The Homecomer pulled into the car park, then went into Reception. A young girl in a white blouse and shorts who looked as if she was about to go and play tennis welcomed him. He smiled at her.
‘Do you have any vacancies?’
‘We had a cancellation yesterday evening,’ the girl said, looking at her computer. ‘It’s a double room.’
‘I’m on my own, but I’ll take it.’
‘Excellent.’ The receptionist entered something into the computer. ‘Do you have some form of ID? A driving licence?’
The Homecomer stared at her. He hadn’t been asked for anything like that at the Ölandic.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing Swedish... I’m from overseas.’
‘So you have a passport?’ the receptionist said. ‘We have to register overseas guests.’
The Homecomer didn’t say anything.
Register. That meant they would contact the police. Or Kloss. Had Kent Kloss asked them to keep an eye open for him?
‘It’s in the car,’ he said in the end. ‘I’ll go and get it.’
He backed away and hurried out of the hotel; he could feel the receptionist watching him the whole time.
He got in the car and drove away. Out of Långvik, up on to the main road. There were lots of cars there; it was easy to blend in, become one of the crowd.
Then he suddenly remembered a hiding place where he could stay. He had been there before.
A place near to the Kloss family property but still out of the way.
He turned off the main road, constantly checking in his rear-view mirror. No one.
The New Country, February 1938
Aron has turned twenty, and this year is full of work and news. From the cellar in Leningrad, he hears radio reports of political trials and major purges of Party officials in Moscow. But Vlad himself is promoted to the rank of lieutenant within the NKVD.
This brings privileges. Each month, Vlad receives a book of coupons that he can use to shop at Insnab, the new shop for employees of the state, which sells foreign goods and clothes.
His new rank also brings respect. As an NKVD man, Vlad wears his uniform in the street, attracting brief glances from his fellow citizens — deferential looks from babusjkas, admiration from small boys. He stands for law and order, a symbol of security in a world full of enemies.
But there is a great deal of work. Night work. With Captain Rugajev, Comrades Trushkin and Popov, and all the rest.
The interrogation of the prisoners often takes place in shifts, down in the cellar, with posters on the walls displaying slogans such as ‘TOWARDS THE FUTURE WITH COMMUNISM!’ and ‘CARRY OUT YOUR TASK WITH SOVIET HONOUR!’