Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

Vlad’s comrades that day were called Daniljuk and Petrov, both ready with their own guns in case there was any problem with Vlad’s pistol. They were all looking forward to a meal and a couple of vodkas after work, and they just wanted to get the job done.

The prisoners stood with their heads bowed. One or two whispered to each other or begged for mercy one last time, or gabbled something to themselves in some foreign language.

‘More foreigners,’ Petrov said. ‘There’s no end to them.’

Vlad said nothing. He simply undid the safety catch on his new gun, went over to the first prisoner, placed his left hand on the man’s shoulder and raised the pistol.

And fired.

The pistol jerked and the prisoner fell forwards.

Vlad was already on his way to the next man.

He raised his gun and fired, raised his gun and fired.

Just another day’s work.

But the seventh prisoner in the line did something forbidden — he turned his head towards his executioner. Vlad saw his profile.

He had already raised the gun, but his hand stiffened.

The man in front of him had a sparse beard that couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises on his face — some old, many new. He took a little step to one side, and Vlad saw that he was limping.

‘Do you recognize me?’ the prisoner said quietly.

He was speaking in Swedish. Aron shouldn’t have recognized that faint, hoarse voice, but he did. It was the same voice that had spoken to him one dark night, urging him to crawl under the wall of the barn and take his father’s wallet so that they would have enough money to travel here. To the new country.

Suddenly, Aron couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift his arm.

‘You look well,’ Sven said.

Aron didn’t reply. He didn’t dare reply.

‘Are you happy here?’

Aron looked at his stepfather and tried to think. Happy?

He shook his head briefly.

‘Go back home to Sweden, then,’ Sven went on, ‘and blow the whole lot to kingdom come. Make sure they get what they deserve.’

Aron slowly moved his head; it was almost a weary nod.

He couldn’t talk any more; that wasn’t why he was here.

It was time to do something with the pistol. He had to do something right now.

Not fire at all?

Or turn the gun on himself?

Or...

Vlad hesitated for only a second, then he quickly placed his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder and aimed the gun at the back of his neck.

And fired.

Sven sank to the ground, and a little wooden box fell out of his trouser pocket.

Aron’s body jerked; he was back underneath the mill. But he remembered that day in the gravel pit. He had carried on working his way along the line of prisoners, surprised that the pistol was still working. And that he himself was still alive.

But now his life was over.

The fire was coming closer, and the mill was pressing him to the ground.

He closed his eyes for the last time.

The old mill was now lying on its side, and Gerlof thought it looked like the wreckage of an airship more than anything else — a burning airship that had come crashing down.

The lower section was already burning fiercely; the wind whipped up the flames, sending showers of sparks up into the grey sky. The fire spread across the shattered walls like a glowing whirlwind. There wasn’t much left of the broken sails, but their slats were burning too.

Something came swirling through the air and landed on the grass next to Gerlof. It wasn’t a piece of debris, but a sheet of paper that had somehow avoided the flames. It was covered in writing.

Then he heard someone moaning from inside the pile of wood. He put the piece of paper in his pocket and peered over at the mill. He could see movement beyond the glow of the fire. Veronica Kloss had dragged herself further away and was busy untying her son.

And John?

He couldn’t see John. That was the worst thing of all, not being able to see that John was safe. John had been in front of him when the mill fell; he had moved sideways... but now there was no sign of him.

Gerlof lay on the grass, unable to get away. He could feel the intense heat from the fire, and he felt like a sacrificial offering, an offering to the mill. Soon it would reach out towards him with burning hands and—

‘Gerlof!’

He heard a boy’s voice and felt two hands gripping him underneath the arms and slowly dragging him away from the mill. Just in time — there was a loud crack, and one of the sails crashed down on the grass where he had been lying seconds ago.

It was young Jonas who had called out and was now hauling him backwards, panting and wobbling. Jonas was only a boy, with skinny arms and legs, but he was doing his best. Gerlof didn’t resist, but he couldn’t help either. He was too tired to do anything.

He allowed himself to be dragged away from the heat and into the cool evening air.

‘John,’ he said.

He looked back at the ruins of the mill, and knew that John and Aron Fredh were still in there. Perhaps one of the neighbours had seen the flames and called the emergency services by now, but it was too late.

‘Gerlof?’

Gerlof looked up at Jonas Kloss. ‘Go and get help,’ he said. ‘Run over to my cottage — as quick as you can, Jonas!’

The boy sped away.

Gerlof was alone now. He called out to John, but got no reply, apart from a series of low groans.

After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the sound of sirens. An ambulance drove into the clearing, followed by fire fighters with hoses, to try to stop the fire spreading across the dry ground.

A shadow fell over him; someone shone a light into his eyes.

‘There are people trapped under the mill,’ Gerlof whispered.

No one took any notice. The shadow turned out to be a fire fighter; Gerlof looked up at him and opened his dry lips.

‘There are people inside,’ he said, a little louder this time.

‘How many?’

‘Two men. Can you—’

The fire fighter immediately turned away, shouting orders to a colleague.

After a few minutes they produced air cushions and pushed them under the collapsed mill; they pumped them up and crawled in beneath the beams.

Shouts and orders.

Eventually, Gerlof saw two figures being carried out and laid on blankets on the grass. They were only silhouettes, but he recognized both of them.

Aron Fredh’s body was lifeless.

John was moving slightly.

The paramedics bent over him, trying to revive him. Gerlof couldn’t see past them. He began to move, shuffling across the grass; he stretched out his hand, between the feet of the paramedics. He groped blindly until he found something bony. It was a hand, John’s cold hand.

He held it tightly, but there was no response.

The activity around John grew more intense as the paramedics worked feverishly — then suddenly stopped. They straightened up, and one of them let out a long breath and took a step backwards.

Gerlof held on to the hand anyway. He didn’t let go until the paramedics gently opened his fingers and placed a yellow blanket over his friend, and another around his shoulders. But John’s blanket was laid over his face, like a shroud, and at that moment Gerlof knew that there was nothing more that could be done.

Jonas had to stay in hospital in Kalmar for four days after the events at the mill. He didn’t really know why, but the doctors talked about ‘trauma care’. He thought he was absolutely fine — his life was much easier now than it had been for ages.