Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

All of a sudden, an image came into his head of Aron Fredh on that summer’s day when Gerlof had seen him in the churchyard, before they heard the knocking from inside the coffin. Aron, twelve years old, had appeared by the shed that served as a mortuary like a little ghost. He had reminded Gerlof of a ghost because...

‘He was white,’ Gerlof said out loud.

‘White?’ John said.

‘He was covered in white powder... The first time I saw Aron in the churchyard, his clothes were covered in flour dust.’

John nodded. ‘That makes sense — Sven Fredh was a miller’s labourer. Aron had probably been helping him before he came to the churchyard.’

‘So Sven worked for different farmers,’ Gerlof said slowly. ‘In the flour mills.’

‘The mills...’

‘Yes,’ Gerlof said. ‘I think that’s where he’s hiding. In a windmill that’s still standing.’

John frowned. ‘But which one? There must be thirty-five or forty in this parish alone.’

‘It can only be an abandoned mill,’ Gerlof said. ‘The kind of place that’s falling down, hidden among the trees and undergrowth somewhere... the kind of place people have forgotten about.’

‘There aren’t so many of those. I should think most of them have fallen down already.’

‘Some are still standing. There must be a mill on or near Kloss family land somewhere... That’s where Aron grew up.’

‘That cuts it down even more,’ John said.

Gerlof nodded. Suddenly, he remembered hearing voices from time to time when he was sitting in his garden. An old man and a younger woman had been talking among the trees, a barely audible conversation. As if they had been sitting in a hiding place, above the ground. In a tree, or some other tall structure...

‘I could be wrong,’ he said to John, ‘but I think it’s in Stenvik. The old mill in the forest, behind my garden.’

It was a grey afternoon on the coast; the storm was almost upon the island. The hundred-year-old mill in the forest was being shaken like a lighthouse by the winds, swaying in time with the trees all around it, but it was still standing.

The interior of the mill consisted of one fairly small square room, with a high ceiling; there was also a loft, and the dusty machinery still stood in the middle of the room. There were no windows, only a number of narrow apertures, so it was dark even in the middle of the day.

After Aron had tied the two boys to old wooden chairs by the wall, he lit some paraffin lamps and stable lanterns he had found, and before long there was a bright light burning in each corner of the mill’s dusty floor, illuminating the wooden walls and the boys’ pale faces. They were keeping very quiet, but he knew they were waiting for Veronica Kloss to come and help them.

Aron was waiting for her, too, his forehead burning and an agonizing pain in his belly. He leaned against the back wall and listened to the wind.

It took time, but eventually Veronica found the right place. He heard the sound of a car engine approaching, then it was switched off. For a moment, there was only the desolate howling of the wind, then footsteps. High heels tapping on the wooden steps leading up to the door. Only one pair of feet. She was alone. Good.

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.’

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.