The footsteps approached slowly but resolutely, making the whole of the old mill shudder.
After a brief silence, the door opened, and Veronica Kloss was standing there in jeans and a black jacket, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
This was the first time Aron had seen her at close quarters. In the glow of the lamps, he noticed that she had dark shadows under her eyes, but her expression was intense. It was full of hatred.
He thought she was ugly. Attractive, perhaps, but still ugly.
‘Are you alone?’
Veronica gave a brief nod.
‘I have something to say first,’ she said. ‘You’re not right in the head. You’ve destroyed everything.’
‘I know that,’ Aron said. ‘With dynamite from the Wall family on the eastern side of the island... Pecka and Einar. The two men your brother killed.’
Veronica didn’t contradict him; she stepped inside the mill.
‘Take off your jacket,’ he said from the other end of the room, ‘and throw it behind you.’
She did as he said. Pulled down the zip and threw the jacket outside. Underneath, she was wearing only a thin white blouse. If she had been carrying some kind of weapon, it was gone now.
Aron was armed with the automatic assault rifle — the largest gun he had bought from Einar Wall. He was standing less than five metres away from her, partly hidden by the central post, and he pointed the barrel straight at Veronica.
‘Come here.’
Veronica went and stood between the two boys, her eyes glittering in the light.
‘Let them go,’ she said.
Aron shook his head. ‘No. Not until we’ve finished talking.’
Veronica nodded in the direction of the slightly older boy on the right. ‘Let my son go, then.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s the most important.’
‘Is he?’
Aron thought for a few seconds, then he reached out and pulled at the rope binding the younger boy’s wrists. Then the one around his ankles. The knots came undone, and the boy was free.
‘You can go,’ Aron said.
The boy stared at him, rubbing his numb hands. He didn’t move until Aron gave his shoulder a gentle push.
‘Go home.’
The boy moved towards the door, past Veronica. She didn’t even glance at him.
The door closed behind him.
Aron looked at Veronica Kloss and pointed to the empty chair, the one her nephew had just vacated. ‘Sit down.’
She didn’t move. ‘Why?’
‘You have a number of charges to answer.’
‘Such as?’
‘You and your brother flattened Rödtorp, and you killed my sister.’
When Veronica still didn’t move, he added, ‘And my wife.’
The New Country, April 1998
It is Easter, and Aron and Mila travel west. They leave their daughter at home and catch the train to Leningrad (which is once again known as St Petersburg) on Good Friday, and stay there overnight.
Mila would like to look around the city, perhaps visit the Winter Palace and see the River Neva — she has not been there since she was a student — but she is too weak. And Aron has no desire to wander around the streets feeling nostalgic. He does not want to renew his acquaintance with Kresty Prison down by the river, he does not want to reawaken old memories of the smells and sounds in there. Or of his friend Trushkin.
He can only think about Sweden, and about the island on the other side of the Baltic Sea.
On the morning of Easter Saturday they board the cruiser MS Baltika, which sails between Stockholm and St Petersburg. It is just as white as SS Kastelholm was, but bigger, and this time Aron doesn’t have to share a cabin with his seasick stepfather. They glide west along the Neva and out into the Baltic, full of anticipation.
The water is calm, and Mila seems to feel a little better in the sea air. She smiles at him as they stand by the rail.
So many summers, so many winters, Aron thinks.
The crossing is much faster than it was in the thirties, and it is still Easter when they arrive in Stockholm.
Aron realizes that this city has changed, too, of course. The derricks in the docks are gone, and the number of buildings has increased significantly.
The Swedish immigration official merely glances at Aron and Mila’s Russian passports, then he says ‘Welcome’ and waves them through. They stay in a small hotel not far from Nytorget, and Aron finds a map in the telephone directory. Veronica Kloss and her family live on Norr Mälarstrand. An impressive address, right by the water.
Mila smiles. ‘We’ll go over there in the morning, in plenty of time before we sail.’
Aron smiles back, but he is trembling inside. He feels like the bastard son when it comes to the Kloss family. And, of course, he is a bastard, the illegitimate offspring lumbering in among the posh folk, with no idea how to behave.
But they have a lovely evening in Stockholm. They wander through the narrow streets of the Old Town, just as Aron and Sven did; they take a ferry trip around the islands and spend the last of their money on a special dinner in a restaurant. Mila coughs quite a lot during the evening, and she is very tired, but she is smiling, too.
‘Everything will be all right.’
Maybe, Aron thinks. If I get down on my knees to Veronica Kloss.
The following day, it is time to go and see her.
Kungsholmen is a little distance away from their hotel. Aron is still hesitating but, eventually, they set off, and manage to find the right house. The outer door is made of dark wood, wide and sturdy. And closed. But there is a nameplate with ‘KLOSS’ engraved on it, and a button beside it.
Aron presses the button and waits by the entry phone, with Mila beside him.
‘Yes?’
It is a woman’s voice, and Aron’s heart begins to pound.
‘Veronica?’ he says quietly. ‘Veronica Kloss?’
‘Yes?’
Aron introduces himself again. He explains, with Mila at his side, that they have come to Sweden because they need help. That he has brought proof that they are related, a snuff box that used to belong to his father, Edvard Kloss.
There isn’t a sound from the speaker.
Then something rattles up above his head. A window opens, three floors up, and a white envelope drifts down through the air. Bizarrely, it reminds Aron of Comrade Trushkin and the letters he left on the streets of Leningrad.
‘Aron Fredh’ is written neatly on the front.
Slowly, he opens the envelope. There is no letter inside, just a piece of paper with a picture on it. A picture of a forest clearing, with a digger standing among the remains of a small house. A croft. The machine has rolled straight in and crushed the walls.
Needless to say, Aron recognizes the croft.
He drops the picture and stares at the door. It remains closed. Veronica Kloss has put down the phone upstairs in her apartment, and the lock never buzzes to let them in.
Aron turns and looks at his wife. She doesn’t understand Swedish, but she knows. Something has died in her eyes; hope is gone.
She takes his arm. ‘We have to go,’ she whispers. ‘We’ll miss the boat.’
They set off, walking in silence.
Mila’s breathing is laboured by the time they reach the hotel. They collect their luggage and take a taxi to the ferry. She is very low, and her cough is worse than ever. Aron wants to cheer her up, but he doesn’t know what to say. His croft is gone. Kloss has destroyed the dream he has cherished for so long.
They manage to catch the boat. Mila is very breathless, without a scrap of colour in her face, in spite of the sun that has been shining down on Stockholm. The ferry slips away from the land, out through the archipelago, leaving Sweden behind them.