Camilla Läckberg - The Hidden Child

‘That’s good,’ said Elsy, with a big smile. ‘Because, if you were to do that, I’d chase you to the ends of the earth.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ he said and laughed. Then he turned serious. ‘There are just a few things that I need to take care of, now that I can go back to Norway.’

‘That sounds serious,’ she said, lifting her head from his shoulder and looking at him nervously. ‘Are you afraid that something has happened to your family?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It’s been so long since I last talked to them. But I won’t leave right away. Maybe in a week or so, and then I’ll be back before you can even blink an eye.’

‘That sounds good,’ said Elsy, leaning against him again. ‘Because I never want us to be apart.’

‘And we won’t be, either,’ he said, kissing her hair again. ‘We won’t.’ Hans closed his eyes as he drew her closer. Between them lay the open newspaper, with the word ‘PEACE’ covering the front page.

It was strange. It was only last week that it had first occurred to Kjell that his father was not immortal. And then on Thursday the police had rung the doorbell to give him the news of his death. He was surprised how strong his emotions were. How for a moment his heart had skipped a beat, and how, when he held out his hand in front of him, he could feel himself holding his father’s hand, a small hand enclosed in a big one, and how their hands had then slowly slipped apart. At that moment he realized that something stronger than hatred had existed the whole time: Hope. That was the only thing that had been able to survive, the only thing that could coexist without being suffocated by the all-consuming hatred that he had felt towards his father. Any love between them had died long ago. But hope had hidden away in a corner of his heart, concealed even from himself.

As he’d stood there in the hall after closing the door behind the police officers, Kjell felt that last vestige of hope disappear, and in that moment a terrible pain made everything go black before his eyes. Because somewhere inside of him that little boy had been longing for his father. Hoping that there might be a way around the walls they had built up.

Now that way was closed. The walls would remain, eventually crumbling but with no possibility of reconciliation.

All weekend his brain had been trying to grasp the fact that his father was gone. Dead by his own hand. And even though it had always been in the back of his mind that this might be the way Frans would die, given how destructive his life had been, it was still difficult to comprehend.

On Sunday Kjell had called in on Carina and Per. He had phoned them on Thursday to tell them what had happened, but he hadn’t had the strength to see them until his own thoughts and memories had settled a bit. He had sensed immediately that there was something different about the atmosphere in their home, but at first he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he had exclaimed in surprise: ‘You’re sober!’ And he didn’t mean just for the moment, or for a short period – because that had happened before, although not very often in the past few years. Instinctively he understood that this was something more; there was a sense of calm, a determination in Carina’s eyes that had replaced the wounded look she’d had ever since he left her. It had always filled him with such guilt. Per was different too. They talked about what would happen after his trial for beating up his classmate, and Per had surprised Kjell with his composure and thoughts on how he was going to deal with the situation. After Per went up to his room, Kjell had mustered his courage and asked Carina what had changed. It was with growing amazement that he heard about his father’s intervention. Somehow Frans had succeeded where Kjell had failed despite ten years of trying.

That had made everything worse. It confirmed the realization that any remaining hope would now chafe futilely inside his heart. After all, Frans was gone: what use was there in hoping now?

Kjell went over to stand at the window of his office and looked out. In a brief, naked moment of self-reflection, he allowed himself to scrutinize his own life and soul with the same critical gaze he had levelled at his father. And what he saw frightened him. Of course his betrayal of his family had not been as dramatic or as unforgivable in the eyes of society, but did that make it any more acceptable? Hardly. He had abandoned Carina and Per. And he had betrayed Beata, too. In fact, he had betrayed her even before their relationship had begun. He had never loved her. He had only loved what she represented, in a weak moment when he needed what she stood for. If he were honest, he wasn’t even fond of her. There’d never been anything like the love he’d felt for Carina that first time he saw her in her yellow dress and with that yellow ribbon in her hair. And he had betrayed Magda and Loke too. Because of the shame he felt at abandoning his first child, he had put up all sorts of barriers inside of him, so he’d never again experienced that raw, deep, all-encompassing love that he had felt towards Per from the moment he saw him in Carina’s arms. He had denied Beata and their children that kind of love, and he didn’t think he was capable of ever finding it again. That was the betrayal he would have to live with. They would have to live with it too.

Kjell’s hand trembled as he lifted the cup he was holding. He grimaced, noticing that the coffee had gone cold as he brooded, but he had already taken a big gulp and forced himself to swallow it.

He heard a voice at the door.

‘Some mail for you.’

Kjell turned and nodded wearily. ‘Thank you.’ He reached out to take the day’s post, already sorted for his personal attention, and leafed through it absentmindedly. A few adverts, some bills. And a letter. The address written in a hand that he recognized. Shaking uncontrollably, he sank back into his chair, placing the letter on the desk in front of him. For a long time he just sat there, staring at the envelope. At his name and the address of the newspaper, written in an ornate, old-fashioned script. The minutes ticked by as his brain tried to command his hand to pick up the letter and open the envelope. It was as if the signals got confused along the way and instead produced a total paralysis.

Finally the signals got through, and he began to open the letter, very slowly. There were three pages, handwritten, and it took a few sentences before he managed to decipher the words. But he managed it.

When he was finished, he set it back down on the desk. And for the last time he felt the warmth of his father’s hand holding his. Then he grabbed his jacket and car keys. He carefully slipped the letter into his pocket.

There was only one thing for him to do now.

They were picked up from the concentration camp in Neuengamme. It was rumoured that the white buses had first had to remove a lot of other prisoners, including Poles, from the camp before they could make room for the Nordic prisoners. It was also rumoured that this had cost a number of people their lives. The prisoners of other nationalities had been in much worse shape than the Scandinavians, who had received food parcels by various means and so had managed to survive the camps in relatively better condition. It was said that many failed to survive the journey, while others had endured terrible suffering during their transport from the camp. But even if the rumours were true, nobody dared think about that now. Not when freedom was suddenly within reach. Bernadotte had negotiated with the Germans and secured permission to bring home the Nordic prisoners, and now they were finally on their way.