Antanas Sileika - Underground

Lukas shifted uneasily. It seemed barbaric to hear the words out here, in Ramel’s mouth. He felt like a murderer. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still, very remarkable. What happened to the woman who worked with you in that operation?”

“She was killed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Were you close to her?”

“She was my wife.”

An awkward silence ensued. Ramel sighed, proposed a toast in her memory, and they finished their drinks. He rose, mixed fresh cocktails in the glass shaker and refilled their glasses.

Then he asked many questions, cross-checking what Lukas had written in his reports, sometimes asking for information that Lukas did not have. Lukas had no idea how many military bases the Red Army had in Lithuania. He had no idea about any rocket installations. He did not know the state of East Prussia beyond what he had seen when he crossed it to get to Poland.

They had been talking for a few hours and the pale grey light in the apartment was growing weaker, although it was still only mid-afternoon. They were on their third cocktail by the time Ramel finished asking questions. He had been thorough and courteous without committing himself. Either he was masking his heart or he did not have one.

“There’s no doubt that the Allies made mistakes during the war,” he said. “We all did.” As a former supplier to the Nazis of war materiel, there was no way to avoid accepting some of the blame for Sweden’s actions. “But Roosevelt made too many concessions to the Soviets. As a result, the whole of Europe has been thrown off balance and the fate of small nations is at risk. A country like Sweden has no option but to manoeuvre between the great powers. It’s true that we have recognized the incorporation of the Baltic States into the Soviet Union. That was regrettable, but necessary for us. However, we are still your friends.”

“You let the Reds have us. How can I think of the Swedes as my friends?”

He had not intended to be so rude, but he was slightly drunk now and getting exasperated. He felt as if he had come to say his child had fallen into a well and his neighbour was giving him a dissertation about the high cost of rope.

“I need you to understand realpolitik ,” said Ramel, unperturbed. “There’s no need for me to meet with you at all. We could stop talking this moment and I could find a spot for you at a displaced per-sons’camp.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. But first let me hear what else you have to say.”

“We’re democrats in Sweden. We think you should have the same rights too. Emotionally we’re on your side, but the Soviet Union is very close to us here, just across the sea.

“Furthermore, the political situation is unstable. We might stay as we are for some time or Europe might go back to the borders of 1939. On the other hand, the Soviets might sweep right across Europe and end up ruling us all. We don’t look forward to this sort of tyrannical orientalism.

“However things turn out in the end, the Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian states and their partisans are important players in the future of Europe. I’m honoured to pay my respects to the movement through you. Lozorius, the old rascal, has been filling my ears as well.

“Here is what I’ve been authorized to do. I can help you get in contact with the wider world. Sweden can take no direct action, but we might be able to put you in touch with people who can. I should remind you that we helped you during the Nazi era, even though we were supposed to be neutral then.”

Ramel stopped at this point and it seemed polite to thank the Swedes through him, so Lukas did so, although it was hard to be diplomatic. His friends were dying and Ramel was talking about measured action.

It was almost dark outside now, but no lights had been turned on inside the apartment. Although all their glasses were empty, Ramel made no move to mix fresh cocktails. The business was nearing its end.

“You know, there is no way you could carry on any clandestine activity here without our knowledge. Do you have any ties with other agencies? Say, the French or the Americans?”

“You’re only the third person I’ve met in this country,” said Lukas. “The fourth if you count my driver from Trelleborg.”

Ramel nodded vaguely. “Well, I feel better now. At least we understand each other.”

Zoly was rising from his chair. Lukas did the same.

“It’s been delightful speaking with you,” said Ramel.

“Maybe we’ll have a chance to speak some more another time.”

“Perhaps.”

A car was waiting for them when they reached the street.

Neither he nor Zoly spoke until the driver pulled up to the warehouse. Lukas got out of the car and Zoly stepped outside too.

“Well?” Zoly asked.

“He’s a cold fish,” said Lukas. “These Swedes are calculating. Look at this beautiful city, a living monument to their neutrality. If you’re neutral, your heart never catches fire, you don’t believe in anything. God, how do these people even procreate?”

“I’m sure he’s passionate about other things besides the fate of the Lithuanians. Do you expect others to risk their security for you?”

“I think I do. Or let me put it another way. I don’t care all that much about their security, which gives them the right to live in beautiful cities like this. Am I supposed to worry about their not wanting to provoke the Reds? What does that get me, except the right to be annihilated?”

“I think you have to find a place where your interests coincide.”

“I don’t see where that place is. He didn’t offer anything.”

“Not exactly, no, but he didn’t close the door either. I think you were being assessed, and I think you passed your exam with flying colours, including being a little abrupt with him.”

“That wasn’t calculated.”

“Then you should think of calculating a little more often.”

“I just want someone on our side.”

“Be patient,” said Zoly.

Lukas looked at him in exasperation. He half liked Zoly, but he also had a deep desire to take him by the shoulders and shake him very hard until the diplomatic veneer shattered and revealed the real man beneath.

STOCKHOLM

FEBRUARY 1948

TWO DAYS LATER, Lukas heard Zoly’s characteristic knock, a discreet, slightly less than obsequious tap tap tap on the warehouse door. The man might have been a concierge, both invasive and ingratiating.

“Hello, hello!” Zoly let himself in and waved from the doorway to Lukas at his desk beside the bed. The warehouse was in cavernous darkness except for the two lights, the one over the door where Zoly stood and the other on Lukas’s desk.

“How would you like to come out for a walk?” Zoly asked.

“I’m in the middle of writing something now. Can it wait?”

“Maybe not.”

Lukas put on his coat, not intending to take his scarf and gloves, but Zoly insisted. They might be away for some time.

They stepped outside onto the street and began to walk along the sidewalk under the grey February sky.

“Where are we going?” asked Lukas.

“It’s all fairly complex, you see. Ramel had to look you over. After all, you’re in Sweden and he has responsibility for what goes on in this country. And it’s true the Swedes are on our side, in a way, but their range of activity is limited because of their neutrality during the war and their caution about the Reds. They can’t actually do anything, so they’re passing you over to someone who can.”

“The Americans?”

“No. The Americans could do something, but they don’t seem ready. We’re going to meet the Brits. Their power isn’t what it once was, but the Baltic used to be a British lake, so they’re familiar with the territory. The British managerial class go back for generations here.