Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

She undergoes a series of tests and X-rays. The doctors confer in whispers. Finally, a consultant at the hospital explains the gravity of the situation.

‘I expect your wife has been a heavy smoker?’ he says to Aron when they are alone.

‘Definitely not. But she was involved in a serious accident when she was young — a huge explosion involving poisonous gases, and a terrible fire.’

The doctor nods; now he understands. ‘I’m afraid the diagnosis is incurable emphysema.’

‘Incurable...?’ Aron says.

‘She needs oxygen,’ the doctor explains. ‘You have to make sure that she has a supply of oxygen, and the best possible care. Private care... You know how things are these days.’

Aron knows that private care in the new land costs money, like everything else. Lots of money. He has heard tales of ambulance drivers demanding hard cash from the sick and injured.

‘What about overseas?’ he says quietly. ‘In... Sweden, for example?’

‘They have excellent health care over there, and it could well be cheaper, but of course that only applies to Swedish nationals,’ the doctor explains.

Aron goes home. Mila has been given her verdict. He thinks about Sweden, and Swedish health care. It’s free to Swedes, no doubt to their families as well. Perhaps it is time to go back to Öland.

There is another reason why Aron is keen to get away. The archives from the days of Stalinism are being opened, and citizens of the former Soviet Union are trawling through mountains of documents, searching for the names of victims of the Great Terror. And for the names of those few executioners who are still alive.

Aron begins to think about changing his identity for a second time. Leaving Vladimir Jegerov behind. Going home to the old country, and taking Mila with him.

But he needs help. Someone who can confirm who he really is.

It is much easier to make overseas telephone calls from Russia now; there is no need to fill in any forms — but Aron does not have any numbers to call. He has no idea which members of his family are still alive.

However, one evening he picks up the phone to try to find out more. A helpful Russian operator finds someone by the name of Greta Fredh on Öland. She is living in a residential home for senior citizens, but she does have her own telephone.

The operator puts him through. He hears the phone ringing out, and after a moment a woman’s voice says, ‘Greta Fredh.’

The voice is old and weak, but Aron recognizes his sister. He begins to explain who he is, stumbling over the Swedish words and phrases.

Greta doesn’t remember him. She doesn’t know who he is. Against the background of a faint rushing sound, he tries to explain. That he emigrated to another country, that he is thinking of coming home. To Rödtorp, the place where they grew up, by the water between the island and the mainland.

Doesn’t she remember?

There is only silence on the other end of the line.

‘Aron?’ his sister says at long last. ‘Is that really you?’

‘Yes, Greta. I’m coming home. To our croft.’

‘Our croft?’ Greta says.

‘Yes. The Kloss family own land — lots of land — and we’re related to them.’

‘Kloss...’ Greta says. ‘That’s right, Veronica is coming to the home to give a talk this summer. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Tell her you’re a relative,’ Aron says.

‘I will.’

Aron thinks his sister is beginning to understand but realizes that her mind works slowly and that her memories are muddled.

‘It’s coffee time now,’ Greta says. ‘Bye, then, Aron. Goodbye.’

He puts down the phone, his hand trembling.

Mila is gazing at him from her bed. ‘What about your other relatives in Sweden?’ she says. ‘The Kloss family?’

The Kloss family. Aron is indeed related to them; he is Edvard’s son, even if his paternity was never acknowledged — it was such a closely guarded secret that Sven never spoke of it, and Aron’s mother, Astrid, only ever hinted at it. And Edvard died rather than admit it.

But could the younger members of the family help out? Perhaps.

He nods to his wife and picks up the phone again.

A further conversation with the international operator reveals that there are several individuals with the surname Kloss who still live on the island of Öland. One of them, Veronica, also has a home in Stockholm. She was the person Greta mentioned.

Aron is given her address and telephone number, and glances over at Mila. He has to make the call. He keys in the number with his index finger — his trigger finger — and waits.

After a while, a young man answers. His name is Urban Kloss, and it turns out that he is Veronica’s son. He understands Aron’s Swedish and confirms that this is the right family. They come from Öland, and spend the summers there.

But he doesn’t seem to have any idea who Aron Fredh is.

Aron asks him to fetch his mother. Once more, he listens to the faint rushing sound as he waits. After a moment, he hears the cool voice of a woman: ‘Veronica Kloss.’

Aron clears his throat and introduces himself, a little hesitantly, in Swedish. He explains who he is, where he is calling from.

‘We’re related,’ he says.

‘Related?’

As Aron goes on talking, his Swedish slowly improves. He tells Veronica about Rödtorp and the shore. About Edvard Kloss and Aron’s mother. About travelling to Stockholm with Sven, then on to Leningrad. About the journey north, and the hard labour. He stops at that point; he doesn’t want to tell her any more.

‘But we are related,’ he says again. ‘I’m Edvard’s son.’

Veronica has listened in silence; now she takes a deep breath. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

There is a click, and the connection is broken.

That’s it. Aron sits there, lost for words, still holding the receiver. He looks at Mila, then back at the phone.

‘She’s gone,’ he says. ‘I suppose it all sounded a bit crazy...’

Mila nods. ‘In that case, we’ll go to Stockholm at Easter,’ she says. ‘When the air is a little warmer. We will go and visit your relative, young Weronikaya, so that you can speak to each other face to face.’

‘Veronica. It’s just Veronica,’ Aron says.

He’s not sure about this, but Mila is determined. ‘Veronica, then. You can take your papers and the old snuff box with you, to prove who you are. That you are her father’s brother.’

‘Her father’s stepbrother,’ Aron says quietly.

‘You’re family,’ Mila says firmly. ‘We need their help; they have to give the croft and the shore back to you.’

Paulina led Lisa on through the darkness by the shore, away from the shattered ridge, without stopping. Northwards, past juniper bushes and boathouses. They had almost reached the stone wall surrounding the campsite.

Lisa was expecting Paulina to head for her caravan, but instead she turned off towards the road. She stopped a few metres away from the roadside and waited.

Lisa looked at her. ‘What’s ammonal?’ she said.

‘Dynamite buried underground. He’d dug out a channel and placed the dynamite in it.’

Lisa blinked. She had so many questions it was difficult to choose one.

Paulina was looking south towards the dark Sound. They could still hear the throb of a motorboat engine, but couldn’t see it.

Then came the sound of another engine, somewhat closer this time, and Lisa saw two headlights approaching.

A dark-coloured car was moving slowly along the coast road, coming from the south. It was probably her imagination, but she thought Paulina was smiling at the car.

‘It’s over, Lisa,’ she said.

Paulina was strangely calm after everything that had happened; she seemed so different.