It was soon after eight when the doorbell rang. The boys had just left, reluctantly. The interrogation went on in the kitchen for barely half an hour. A younger colleague made notes on a pad while a slim gentleman in a suit asked questions in remarkable German. They had asked Lucia to wait in the sitting room, but she heard every word.
“And so you were given the ink by this man Horst? Are you sure that was his real name, Wolfgang Horst?”
After a few minutes they closed the kitchen door. She could hear the conversation continuing inside. It had been made clear at the start that the men were from the police, but that was all. Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and she could see her husband’s white face in the doorway.
He disappeared into the bedroom to put on a different shirt and a jacket that matched his trousers. The men from the police stood in the hall, saying nothing.
“They say I have to go with them. If I’m not back this afternoon, you’ll have to explain to the boys. Don’t worry.”
He put on his coat and, accompanied by the two expressionless men, went out into the stairwell, where the sour smell was stronger than usual. The outer door closed behind them. Neither of the Swedes had said goodbye to Lucia. She was left standing alone in the hallway until her legs gave way beneath her.
Later she wouldn’t be able to explain what happened next. Instead of telephoning Mrs. Lagerberg or the Grafström family, she simply sat on the rug in the hall. She tried to reach for the little telephone book, but the table was too far away. She leaned against the kitchen door, stared at the dark-blue wallpaper, and lost herself in its pattern. How long she sat like that, she didn’t know.
She was no longer in the hall, alone in the second-floor apartment belonging to a family she scarcely knew. The fact that her husband had just been taken away by the police wasn’t on her mind now. The light surrounding her was soft and warm.
She was floating in the cool water of the Lielupe River, which flowed out into the Bay of Riga. It had been an unusually warm August. The boys had bathed from dawn to dusk, while she sat on the sand, reading. As the afternoon drew to its close, she and Immanuel would walk along the shore, and when the sun touched the horizon, she too took a swim. They had chosen a shallow cove, and by the end of the day the water had warmed up perfectly. A few meters out, the bottom was no longer sand but covered with smooth stones, black and even. She picked some up and let them dry on the beach. The black color they had in the water vanished, and they turned gray when they dried on her towel.
She liked swimming underwater, as she had since childhood, when she used to bathe in a lake outside Częstochowa. She could disappear under the water for so long, sometimes the boys were alarmed. Or they may have said they were, just to make it more exciting. The cove they had chosen was so shallow, they could still touch the bottom several hundred meters out to sea.
Someone knocked on the outside door. Then the bell rang, so briefly it could have been her imagination. Lucia barely roused, even though she was still lying in the hall. In her dream she was still underwater. She rolled over on the rug, thinking Immanuel was sure to be awake and would see what was going on.
Perhaps it was Henrik coming home early from school again. Both he and Karl had been teased about their clothes. They were old-fashioned and not like the clothes the boys at school wore. Outdated and wrong, as they had discovered on the very first day. Lucia soon realized it would be essential to find something new. Yet the woolen suits had been purchased in Warsaw only the year before, and were of the finest quality. Karl had gritted his teeth and pretended not to take any notice, but twice Henrik had left school when the tormenters were up to their tricks again, arriving home in tears. He had tugged at the front door, which was open, and thrown himself into her arms, sobbing and inconsolable. Although he would soon be fourteen, he behaved like the little boy he had been when he was bullied by hoodlums at the carnival many years earlier. He had promised his mother that he would never leave Żoliborz, where no such things would ever happen. The things that did happen were just as nasty as she had feared, and large rips appeared in his jacket. Yet she hadn’t been capable of scolding him on that occasion either. She never had been, and Immanuel was probably right, she did mollycoddle the boys. But what choice did she have, when Henrik was weeping in her arms again?
There was another ring. The sound was muffled and more reminiscent of a drill than a bell. Oddly, it sounded as though the noise was coming from somewhere faraway, maybe from the cellar. Lucia knew there was someone on the stairs, someone who had something important to say.
She had managed somehow to get herself to the bedroom. How, she couldn’t remember. It was as if what had happened had faded into a mist of unreality. Was it still morning?
As she sat on the edge of the bed, the memory of the morning’s visitors and the unnerving conversation resurfaced. She put on her dressing gown and looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was midday. She had slept for hours, a deep and eventually dreamless sleep. As soon as she stood up, she was attacked by the dizziness that at times in the last few weeks had been serious enough to keep her in bed. She sat down again. The floor beneath her feet was rocking. When she shut her eyes, it felt as though sparks were spinning around inside her. This was the vertigo that Joen Lagerberg and his wife, Valborg, thought needed closer investigation.
It was a good thing the Lagerbergs were in the city. Both spoke excellent German, which was a relief. Valborg was always as accommodating and well dressed as her husband, if less formally. Lagerberg had been well known in Warsaw for his taste. At the embassy he wore tails as standard dress. The most dashing in the entire diplomatic corps, her husband had said.
Perhaps it was Valborg who had rung the bell. She had done that the previous week, with young Madeleine, their adopted daughter, at her side. It had been a very welcome social call. For once the two women could have a conversation. When the men were present, they were used to having little scope for talking to each other.
Yes, she hoped it was Valborg. It would be nice if she came. Lucia mustn’t let her wait any longer, in case she gave up. With her left hand she could just reach the handle of the half-open bedroom door. Holding on to it, she slowly stood up. That was good, she could be upright without losing her balance. Treading very cautiously, she went out into the hall. Could she open the front door like this, in her dressing gown and slippers in the middle of the day? It might be one of the Weil brothers. Maybe it was about the typewriters.
She reached the door and opened it warily. As a gust of chilly air blew in through the crack, the door was wrenched open with a force that frightened her. The two men from the police were back. Without any form of greeting, they entered the hall and proceeded to the kitchen. Their gestures made it clear she was to follow them. The tall thin one, who was obviously the superior, started asking questions without sitting down.
“Your husband’s typewriter, where is it? He says he borrowed it from the Weil family, but that’s not true. Young Mr. Weil says he doesn’t own a typewriter.”
He marched impatiently back and forth between the kitchen and the hall, speaking fast and slurring slightly. His German was really very good. There was no problem understanding the towheaded commissioner now walking around inspecting everything he came across. After opening doors at random in the kitchen, he resumed his questioning.
“The invisible ink must still be in the study. Do you know where the fountain pen has been hidden? If you show us, it will save us turning the whole place upside down.”
Lucia had sat down at the table. The dizziness had fortunately subsided, but the tiredness she felt must have been plain to see. Her breathing was labored, and before she could get a word in edgewise, the young assistant interposed with further thoughts about the typewriter, which was clearly what currently preoccupied them.
“It’s a Rheinmetall brand, we could see that immediately. If it doesn’t belong to Mr. Weil, it might have been loaned by another neighbor. Or you managed to acquire one of your own.”
He was speaking as though Lucia wasn’t in the room. Since his comments were in Swedish now, she didn’t understand a word.
The assistant came out of the sitting room bearing the Rheinmetall machine and dropped it on the kitchen table with a crash.
There was a sheet of white paper in the machine; the commissioner wound the sheet down a little before starting to tap with unnecessary pressure on every key. He shouted each letter out aloud as the print appeared on the paper.
A—s—d—f—g—h.
He paused between the letters in time with each sharp strike of the keys.
“Yes, it’s a German keyboard, as far as I can see. Some of the letters are missing.”
He kept on hammering, following his own dictation despite the unfamiliar position of the keys. In a loud voice he shouted out his observations, which he simultaneously typed onto the paper.
T–h–i–s m–a–c–h–i–n–e i–s q–u–i–t–e d–i–s–t–i–n–c–t–i–v–e i–n t–h–a–t, i–n–t–e–r a–l–i–a, i–t l–a–c–k–s t–h–e l–e–t–t–e–r A w–i–t–h a r–i–n–g o–n t–o–p.
He stopped and rolled the sheet of paper down to check what he had typed so aggressively. He nodded and continued his report.
I–t i–s r–e–a–s–o–n–a–b–l–e t–o a–s–s–u–m–e t–h–a–t t–h–e p–e–r–s–o–n i–n c–u–s–t–o–d–y u–s–e–d s–u–c–h a m–a–c–h–i–n–e, s–i–n–c–e I h–a–v–e n–o–t–e–d t–h–a–t i–n c–e–r–t–a–i–n c–o–r–r–e–s–p–o–n–d–e–n–c–e h–e a–d–d–e–d r–i–n–g–s a–b–o–v–e t–h–e l–e–t–t–e–r–s b–y h–a–n–d, i–n–c–l–u–d–i–n–g i–n s–o–m–e c–a–s–e–s o–n t–h–e w–r–o–n–g l–e–t–t–e–r–s.
Periodically he interrupted his own dictation with a muttered curse when he hit the wrong key.
“Damn, it’s not easy. Oh, well.”
O–f c–o–u–r–s–e t–h–e J–e–w–i–s–h f–a–m–i–l–y W–e–i–l s–a–y t–h–e–y d–i–d n–o–t l–e–n–d a–n–y–o–n–e t–h–e–i–r m–a–c–h–i–n–e–s, b–u–t t–h–a–t i–n–f–o–r–m–a–t–i–o–n c–a–n–n–o–t b–e t–r–u–s–t–e–d. I–n a–d–d–i–t–i–o–n i–t w–o–u–l–d b–e u–s–e–f–u–l i–f i–t p–r–o–v–e–d t–o b–e t–h–e m–a–c–h–i–n–e o–n w–h–i–c–h t–h–e l–e–t–t–e–r–s w–e–r–e t–y–p–e–d, f–o–r t–h–e–n w–e c–o–u–l–d h–a–v–e a c–r–a–c–k a–t t–h–e W–e–i–l–s a–s w–e–l–l.
He looked up and saw Lucia slumped on her chair in the corner of the kitchen.
“You’re Polish, we understand?”
“Pardon?”
She wasn’t sure he meant her, even though they were alone in the kitchen.
“You’re Polish?”
“Not at all. I’m German, like my husband.”
“But he stated you were born in Częstochowa. When you were young you wanted to study medicine, but couldn’t finance your studies. Is that correct?”
What was this about? Had Immanuel wanted to exaggerate her qualifications for some reason? It wouldn’t be the first time, and not just with regard to her but the whole family, even his brother, who hadn’t completed any kind of education. She knew her husband never regretted his own decision not to finish his doctorate but to choose journalism instead. His Dr. B. byline was a joke everyone in the Basel office was aware of. But for some reason he was keen to stress Lucia’s academic career, which had never even begun.
She answered dutifully.
“I studied at a school of commerce and have worked as a secretary for nearly twenty years. I type up my husband’s articles. I’m German, but my father left Berlin to run his business in Poland.”
Normally conversations about her birthplace would sooner or later turn to Jasna Góra, a place of pilgrimage for people from all over the world to venerate the Black Madonna. But the Swedish policemen weren’t interested in that, she was sure.
“Częstochowa. Is that how you pronounce it?”
The commissioner had started speaking again, enlivened by the situation, and continued the questioning.
“So you’re German. But your husband claims he’s a Jew. Isn’t that right? Of course, we wonder why there’s no J-stamp in his passport. Has he managed to rub it out somehow?”
The assistant gave a short laugh. He obviously thought it was funny, the idea that a Jew of his own accord would erase the proof of his true origins.
“So you were the one who typed up the articles? There were a number of articles for the office in Berlin, weren’t there?”
Lucia explained about the various abbreviations that distinguished between articles for Basler Nachrichten and those sent to Amsterdam or other cities. The number of articles to Basel was large, but the short items were often telephoned in. Her husband dealt with those in the morning. More often than not lying in bed with a cup of coffee on the bedside table, but she didn’t mention that. She couldn’t say how many articles had been sent to Kutzner, the editor in Berlin, but they had been fewer and fewer.
“But you didn’t write the letter with the invisible ink, did you?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s written by hand,” the assistant added. “So that’s easy to establish.”
Lucia knew about the fountain pen and the bottle of green liquid. In fact she had helped her husband fill it the first time. It had spiked the boys’ interest, and they had joined in too. They wanted to play with the poisonous liquid. She knew Immanuel had hidden it, presumably somewhere in the study. She hadn’t seen the stuff since. It was news to her that Immanuel had actually used it.
She explained this earnestly, but the commissioner didn’t seem convinced. Quite the opposite, he laughed and turned to the assistant, pulling a wry face.
“So she’s never seen him using the pen, she says. But that’s a lie, of course.”
He stood and paced up and down in the kitchen.
“So you’ve been in regular contact with this press agency in Berlin. How would you like to describe its operation?”
Lucia was silent for too long. The commissioner rapped his knuckles impatiently on the table and gave her a searching look. Hadn’t she understood the question, or did she need time to consider, to avoid saying anything rash?
He repeated the question. “This press agency run by Mr. Kutzner, how does it work?”
The truth was, she wasn’t clear about how the agency functioned, and in fact had always thought there was something undesirable about sending articles to Berlin. It was five years since her husband had been banned from contributing to the German press. Secretly sending unsigned pieces to an agency in the capital was perilous. Her husband had always maintained that the articles were harmless and the little extra income could hardly hurt.
“You type up the articles, but your husband is the real correspondent? Have I understood correctly?”
“Yes, that’s right. My husband can’t manage a typewriter.”
“Have you typed up all the articles?”
“Yes, in the old days my husband’s brother worked at our home. He could use a typewriter. But Gerhard didn’t come to Sweden with us.”
“Is he still in Warsaw then?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know where he’s gone. It troubles my husband greatly. So much so, he can’t sleep at night.”
Lucia knew she was being too personal. Too emotional. There was absolutely no reason to confide in them like this. These men weren’t in the least interested in what had happened to Immanuel’s brother, that was obvious.
“He’s not the person we want to know about. We want to know about Wolfgang Horst, the one who encouraged your husband to gather information. What can you tell us about this man Horst?”
Lucia wasn’t sure if she had understood what the commissioner said, and anyway she had no desire to know anything about the demands Horst had made of her husband. So she just shook her head. They wouldn’t believe her if she told them the truth anyway, that she knew nothing at all about this man. That she wasn’t even convinced he existed. She remembered the telephone call, naturally. She remembered the voice. And of course she recalled the puzzling conversations she had with her husband about the meeting. She had felt despondent, but didn’t know why. Had her husband met Horst before, in Latvia maybe? Was he one of the men in the band of journalists who sometimes appeared at the hotel in the seaside resort of Majori? She was no longer certain of anything. She remained silent, which understandably annoyed the commissioner. He rapped on the table with his knuckles again and raised his voice.
“I’ll tell you what . . .” He faltered and cast a quick glance at the assistant, who was absorbed in his notebook and wasn’t aware of his superior’s hesitancy.
“Let’s put it this way, then . . .” He broke off again. He took a deep breath, looked out of the kitchen window, and continued at a slower pace.
“We’ve looked into all the guests who stayed at the Grand during the period he’s supposed to have been in Stockholm, and no Mr. Horst checked in. Now we’re thinking that a Mr. Horst might not exist. What do you have to say about all of this? Who came to see your husband, and who gave him the German fountain pen and the invisible ink?”
He stopped speaking and fixed his harsh gaze on Lucia, who realized that he really did require an answer.
“I don’t know who this man Horst is,” she said gravely.
The commissioner snorted.
“Let me ask you this: What kind of people work in this office, the ones who supply articles to German-language newspapers? In Poland, if I’ve understood correctly. Do they form some sort of network?”
Lucia wasn’t sure what she should say. Of course she knew that the bureau had originally been established with the aim of circumventing the hard-line policies of the German press. And she also knew that some of the correspondents could no longer work in Germany and therefore lived in cities such as Kaunas and Riga. She had never met Kutzner, but of course she knew about him. Had her husband mentioned von Scheliha from the embassy, the sympathetic German diplomat who was one of Lagerberg’s and Grafström’s circle of friends in Warsaw, and who had helped to set up the agency?
She was about to speak, but stopped. She could feel the seriousness of the situation in her body, now heavy and sluggish. Under no circumstances would she name names unless she had to. Which people had her husband already spoken to the police about? If she knew that, it would be easier. Clearly Rudolf von Scheliha. He must have mentioned him, surely? Then there was a woman. What was her name again, the one whose head had been turned by Moscow? Ilse Stübe, or as her husband rather mockingly called her, Comrade Stübe.
The truth was, she was the one with the greatest misgivings about all this secrecy. She had always had the feeling it would come back to haunt them, that there would turn out to be something wrong about the whole setup. And now she had been proved right.
“Your husband has admitted that he assisted the British Secret Service with propaganda material,” the commissioner went on, as if he had casually decided to forget the Berlin office and change tack. “Would you say your husband is well versed in that area?”
“I’m sorry, what area do you mean?”
“Propaganda. Political agitation. You understand well enough. Do you consider your husband well versed in these spheres?”
She could feel the vertigo return. But without meeting her eye, the commissioner went on to ask a series of questions, and she did her best to answer. It was as if he were reciting a list of names in order to determine if she would react to any of them. It started with Miss Stern, the ever-helpful girl in the office. Lucia was happy to speak warmly about her. She would rather not comment on Bermann Fischer; she hardly knew him, still less his family.
“What do you have to say about Rickman and his fiancée, Elsa Johansson?”
Lucia had no idea who he was talking about. She said nothing.
“Biggs, the advertising man Biggs? He must have been in and out of this house, one suspects. Wasn’t he the one who paid for the British propaganda? My colleague here has an example, of course.”
Without changing his expression, the young assistant who had been engrossed in his notebook leaned across the table. From his inner pocket he took out a slender cardboard tube. He swore as he endeavored to extract the contents, but eventually unrolled a flyer and placed it on the table in front of them. It was a cartoon of Stalin, who held a large saw and was in the process of cutting off the tree branch on which the German führer was sitting.
Lucia had never seen the picture before and didn’t know how she was supposed to respond. She knew both policemen were hoping for some kind of comment from her side, but she couldn’t pretend. She barely had the strength to sit upright. She would rather have lain down on the mat in the kitchen and closed her eyes.
“Above all we want answers to questions about Rickman, and about your husband’s working relationship with him. We expect assistance from you to clear this up.”
His voice, which was dry and matter-of-fact, had hardened. It was obvious the commissioner meant business.
“As I’m sure you know, Rickman had an office on Näckströmsgatan.”
Lucia knew nothing about an office, and, as far as she could recall, hadn’t even heard Rickman’s name. Could he be one of the new colleagues at the publishing house on Sturegatan? The only name she remembered was Miss Stern.
But now, suddenly, the men were on their feet. Were they going to leave? She could hear the assistant trampling about in the apartment. The commissioner was standing in the hall, when a shout could be heard from the study.
“Commissioner Danielsson! Here it is!” With a beam of satisfaction on his face, the young man came out brandishing the fountain pen and ink bottle. He handed them to the commissioner, who put them into his coat pocket. The commissioner had been wearing his coat the whole time, and now he wrenched the front door open.
The assistant evidently realized he had forgotten something, for he turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen. He returned to the hall bearing the heavy typewriter in his arms.
Lucia was leaning against the kitchen doorframe. All she could utter was a question. “When can I expect my husband to come home?”
They were already out in the stairwell. The air pouring into the apartment was ice-cold. Without turning, Commissioner Danielsson pushed the front door shut behind him. Before it closed completely, he spoke to his colleague.
“Did you hear that? She seems to think her husband’s going to come home.”
Both policemen laughed and began to descend the stairs. The door closed with a gentle thud, and Lucia was alone once more. Her slippers were still under the kitchen table, and she was standing on the rug in the hall. The draft from the stairwell had gone.
She dragged herself into the bedroom.
Her chest felt as though it was filled with a silt that was thick and black and dense, as sometimes happened after an attack of vertigo. But by the time the boys came home from school in the afternoon, she had always pulled herself together. She forced herself out of bed, and before evening she would be sitting in front of the machine, typing up the day’s articles. She had managed to do that every time.
There was a photograph on the bureau by the bed, where she had placed it on the very first day. When the dawn light came through the window, she could see her husband’s head bending toward her shoulder.
It was late afternoon, and the sunlight reflecting in the windowpanes on the other side of the street fell directly onto the picture. She liked the photograph. Both because she herself looked so relaxed and confident, and because Immanuel had that dreamy look she remembered from those days. The picture was taken just after their wedding. She remembered the occasion, the photographer’s fussiness over the various lamps, and new suggestions, constantly, about how they should sit on the rather uncomfortable bench he offered them. She was wearing a new hat and a dress with a long row of silver buttons she had bought in a shop on Salzplaz in Breslau. It had been expensive, but she wore it at parties for years afterward. Her features were soft, but her body slender.
In those days Immanuel read poetry to her and sometimes wrote his own. He was still a young editor, and she an even younger secretary. They had moved in together a few months before.
The window in the bedroom wasn’t completely shut, and noises from the courtyard floated in through the narrow gap. A neighbor was beating rugs down below.
She lay perfectly still, gazing at the picture, wide awake now. Something had made her stir. Perhaps it was the carpet beater. But now she heard something else. Was that someone at the door?
How she contrived to sit up on the edge of the bed was a mystery. It was even more remarkable that she managed to rise and shuffle out into the study in her slippers. Still in her dressing gown, she sat down at the desk and laid her hands on the typewriter keys. She heard the boys’ steps in the hall. The door closed with a bang. They slammed down their shoes and schoolbags, chattering happily as they went into the kitchen. One of them shouted something about a sandwich. They were in a good mood.
That wasn’t always the case. Karl usually looked impassive and serious. He was the elder by just one year, but already as responsible as an adult. Henrik, on the other hand, was never far from tears when he recounted his classmates’ snidest comments of the day. He often ended up sitting on Lucia’s knee and weeping, or lying by her side. Later in the afternoon they would drink hot chocolate, and when Immanuel returned from the office, the worst of the tears was generally over. By the time they gathered at the dinner table, the atmosphere was usually better, and afterward they all joined forces on the boys’ homework. Only when this was done could dessert be eaten.
From today everything would be different. How was she to explain what had happened? She wasn’t entirely sure herself what had taken place, nor what lay ahead.
But one thing she did know. A new era had begun. That much was clear. From now on, everything depended on her.
Lucia refused to give in to the dizziness and the ensuing nausea the second she moved. She didn’t know where the strength came from, but she found it. She pressed a few keys with all the force she could muster, so that the boys would think she was working. Clickety-clack. This was the time she would usually turn her attention to the daily transcriptions. Today she was typing because life had to go on. Letters that didn’t form words. She kept tapping on the machine and managed a lighthearted shout in response to the boys’ exuberance in the kitchen. They were squabbling and carrying on, especially noisy and full of life. That was all that mattered now.