Buried Angels

FJÄLLBACKA 1920

The girl cried constantly, day and night, and even if Dagmar put her hands over her ears and roared, she couldn’t drown out the sound. All she heard was the child screaming and the neighbours pounding on the wall.

This was not how it was supposed to be. She could still feel his hands on her body, see his eyes as she lay naked in bed beside him. She was convinced that her feelings had been returned, so something must have happened to him. Otherwise he would not have left her to this life of poverty and degradation. Maybe he’d been forced to return to Germany. No doubt they needed him there. He was a hero who had dutifully responded when summoned by his homeland, regardless of the heartbreak he must endure at leaving her behind.

Before she realized that she was with child, she had searched for him, using every means possible. She’d written letters to the German legation in Stockholm and asked everyone she met whether they knew of the war hero Hermann Göring and what had happened to him. When he found out that she had given birth to his child, he was bound to return. No matter how important his work in Germany, he would drop everything to rescue her and Laura. He would never allow her to live in such misery, among these loathsome people who looked down on her and refused to believe her story when she told them who Laura’s father was. They would be surprised when Hermann stood outside her door, so handsome in his pilot’s uniform, holding his arms open wide and with a fancy automobile waiting.

The child cried louder and louder in her cradle, and Dagmar felt anger surge inside of her. She had no peace, not even for a few minutes. The baby was wilfully doing this, that was clear from the expression on her face. As tiny as she was, she displayed the same scorn for Dagmar as everyone else did. Dagmar hated them all. Let them burn in hell, every single gossip-monger and every lecherous bastard who, in spite of their jeers, came to her in the night, paying her a pittance to stick it inside her. They would lie on top of her, groaning and rooting around – she seemed to be good enough for that.

Dagmar threw off the blanket and went into the cramped kitchen. Every surface was covered with dirty dishes, and a fetid odour rose up from the rotting scraps of leftover food. She opened the door to the pantry. It was empty except for a bottle of rubbing alcohol that a chemist had given her. She picked it up and took it back to bed with her. The child was still crying, and the neighbours were again pounding on the wall, but Dagmar didn’t care. She coaxed the cork out, used the sleeve of her nightgown to wipe off the mouth of the bottle, and then took a good swig. If she drank enough, all the persistent sounds around her would disappear.