Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

The passage about Scotland was a mysterious insertion in the middle of a diary with large time gaps. Sometimes several years pass without Molin applying pen to paper, usually a fountain pen, although occasionally he used a pencil to write his journal. The trip to Scotland, to the town of Dornoch, is an exception. He goes there to meet somebody called “M.” They go for walks. Always in the evening. It is not clear who “M.” is, nor what they talk about. They go for walks, that’s all. On one occasion, Wednesday, May 17, Molin allows himself to make one of the extremely few personal comments to be found in his diary. “Woke up this morning fully rested. Realize I should have made this journey years ago.” That’s all. “Woke up this morning fully rested.” It is a significant comment in many ways, because elsewhere in the diary there are many references to how difficult he finds it to sleep. But in Dornoch he sleeps soundly, and realizes he should have come here years ago.

It was afternoon by the time Lindman had read this far. When he found the package in the shed, his first thought was to take the diary to his hotel in Sveg. Then he changed his mind, and for the second time he entered Molin’s house by climbing in through the window. He brushed the jigsaw puzzle pieces to one side of the table in the living room and replaced them with the diary. He wanted to read it there, in the ruined house, with the spirit of Herbert Molin close at hand. He set out the three photographs beside the diary. Before opening it, he untied the red ribbon around the letters. There were nine of them. They were from Molin to his parents in Kalmar, dated between October 1942 and April 1945. All of them were written in Germany. Lindman decided to work his way through the diary first.

It started with notes from Oslo on June 3, 1942. Molin recorded the fact that he’d bought the diary in a stationery shop in Stortingsgatan, Oslo, with the intention of “noting down significant events in my life.”

He’d crossed the border into Norway to the west of Idre in northern Dalarna, on a road passing through Flötningen. The road had been recommended by a certain “Lieutenant W. from Stockholm whose job it is to ensure that those who wish to join the German army can find the way there through the mountains.” It was not explained how he traveled from the border to Oslo, but the fact is that he’s there now, it’s June 1942, he buys a notebook and starts to keep his diary.

Lindman paused at this point. It was 1942, and Molin was nineteen. In fact, his name at that time was August Mattson-Herzén. He started keeping his diary when he was passing through a life-changing phase. Nineteen years of age, and he decides to enlist in the German army. He wants to fight for Hitler. He’s left Kalmar, and one way or another he got in touch with a Lieutenant W. in Stockholm who has something to do with recruitment for the German military. But does young August go off to war with or without the blessing of his parents? What are his motives? Is he fighting Bolshevism? Or is he just a mercenary bent on adventure? It is not clear. All that emerges is that he is nineteen years of age and is in Oslo.

Lindman read on. On June 4 Molin records the date, then starts writing something that he crosses out. Nothing more until June 28. He notes in capital letters, in bold, that he’s “been enlisted,” and that he was to be taken to Germany as early as July 2. His notes exude triumph. He’s been accepted by the German army! Then he records that he buys an ice cream cone. Walks down the main street and looks at pretty girls who “embarrass me when I catch their eye.” This is the first comment of a personal nature in the diary. He licks an ice cream cone and eyes the girls. And is embarrassed.

The next note is hard to decipher. After a while Lindman realizes why. Molin is on a train, which is shaking. He’s on his way to Germany. He writes that he is tense but confident. And that he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by another Swede who has joined the Waffen-SS, Anders Nilsson from Lycksele. He notes that “Nilsson doesn’t have much to say for himself, and that suits me. I’m pretty reserved myself.” They are accompanied by some Norwegians, but he doesn’t record their names. The rest of the page is empty — apart from a large brown stain. Lindman imagined Molin spilling coffee onto his diary, then putting it away in his bag so as not to spoil it.

His next note is from Austria. It’s October by now.

October 12, 1942. Klagenfurt. I’ve almost finished basic training for the Waffen-SS. In other words, I’m about to become one of Hitler’s elite soldiers, and I’m determined to make the most of it. Wrote a letter that Erngren will take back to Sweden: he’s fallen ill, and been discharged.

Lindman turned to the pile of letters. The first one was dated October 11, from Klagenfurt. He noted that it had been written with the same pen Molin is using for his diary — a fountain pen that occasionally produced large blots. Lindman went over to one of the windows to read it. A bird flew off through the trees.

Dear Mother and Father!

I realize you may have been worried because I haven’t written before now. Father’s a soldier himself, and no doubt knows it’s not always easy to find time and a place to sit down with pen and paper. I just want to assure you, dear Mother and Father, that I am well. I came from Norway via Germany to France, where the basic training took place. And now I’m in Austria for weapons training. There are a lot of Swedes here, and also Norwegians, Danes, Dutchmen, and three boys from Belgium. Discipline is strict, and not everybody can handle it. I’ve kept my nose clean so far and even been praised by a Captain Stirnholz who’s in charge of part of the course here. The German army, and especially the Waffen-SS that I now belong to, must have the best soldiers in the world. I have to admit that we’re all waiting impatiently for the moment when we can get out there and start doing some good. The food is generally fine, but not always. But I’m not complaining. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come to Sweden. One is not entitled to any leave until one has been active for a certain length of time. Of course, I’m longing to see you again, but I grit my teeth and do my duty. And that is the great task of fighting for the new Europe and the defeat of Bolshevism.

Love from

Your son August.

The paper had turned yellow and become brittle. Lindman held it up to the light. The watermark, the German eagle, was very obvious. He stayed at the window. August Molin leaves Sweden, sneaks over the border into Norway, and joins the Waffen-SS. His motive is clear from the letter he sent to his parents. August is no mercenary. He joins the German war effort, fights for Nazism, in order to contribute to the emergence of a new Europe that requires the elimination of Bolshevism. At the age of nineteen, the boy is already a convinced Nazi.

Lindman returned to the diary. By the beginning of January 1943, Molin finds himself deep in Russia, on the eastern front. The optimism that had been in the diary to start with has changed into doubt, then despair, and finally fear. Lindman was struck by an extract from the winter:

March 14. Location unknown. Russia. Freezing cold as ever. Scared stiff every night of losing a body part. Strömberg killed by shrapnel yesterday. Hyttler has deserted. If he’s caught, they’ll either shoot him or hang him. We are dug in and expecting a counterattack. I’m frightened. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of getting to Berlin and taking some dancing lessons. I wonder if I’ll ever make it.

He’s dancing, Lindman thought. He’s in some trench or another and he survives by dreaming about how he might be gliding around a dance floor.