Buried Angels

FJÄLLBACKA 1931

Dagmar could feel everyone’s eyes watching her. People thought she was oblivious to what was going on, but she wasn’t about to be fooled, especially not by Laura. Her daughter was good at garnering sympathy. They’d praise her for being a little housewife, and feel sorry for her because she had a mother like Dagmar. None of them knew what Laura was really like, but Dagmar saw through the hypocrisy. She knew what was under that pretty surface. Laura bore the same curse she did. The mark might be under her skin and hidden from view, but she was branded all the same. Laura’s fate would be no different to her mother’s, and she shouldn’t think otherwise.

Dagmar was shaking slightly as she sat at the kitchen table. Along with her morning dram she’d eaten a piece of plain crispbread, scattering as many crumbs as she could. Laura hated it when there were crumbs on the floor and never had any peace until she’d swept up every last one. A few crumbs had landed on the table, and Dagmar brushed them on to the floor as well. Now the girl would have something to keep her busy when she came home from school.

Restlessly Dagmar drummed her fingers on the flowery tablecloth. She was always filled with a nervous energy that demanded some sort of release; she had long since lost the ability to sit still. Twelve years had passed since Hermann had left her, yet even now she could feel his hands on her body, which had changed so much that she no longer bore any resemblance to the young woman she once was.

The anger that she’d felt towards him inside that small, sterile room in the hospital had evaporated. She loved him and he loved her. Nothing had turned out as she’d imagined, but it was good to know who was to blame. Every waking hour and even in her dreams, she would picture Carin Göring’s face, always with a superior, scornful expression. It was clear that Carin had enjoyed seeing the humiliation that she and Laura had suffered. Dagmar drummed her fingers harder on the tablecloth. Thoughts of Carin filled her head. It was thanks to those thoughts and to alcohol that she was able to keep herself going day after day.

She reached for the newspaper lying on the table. Since she couldn’t afford to buy a paper, she stole old editions from the bundles that were tossed behind the store, waiting to be picked up. She always read every page with great care, because sometimes she would find articles about Hermann. He had returned to Germany, and the name Hitler, which he’d shouted in the hospital, was frequently mentioned in the papers. She had read the articles, feeling her excitement rise. The man in the newspapers was her Hermann. Not that fat, shrieking person wearing hospital garb. He was in uniform once more, and although he wasn’t as handsome or stylish as he’d been when they first met, he was again a man who wielded power.

Her hands were still shaking as she opened the newspaper. It seemed to take longer and longer each morning for her first drink to take effect. She might as well have another. Dagmar got up and poured herself a sizeable shot. She downed it in one gulp, feeling the warmth immediately spread throughout her body, easing the shaking. Then she sat down again and started leafing through the paper.

She had almost come to the last page when she discovered the article. The letters began blurring together, and she had to force herself to focus on the headline: ‘Göring’s wife buried. Wreath from Hitler.’

Dagmar studied the two photographs. Then a smile spread across her lips. Carin Göring was dead. It was true, and it made her laugh with joy. Now there was nothing to stop Hermann. Now he would finally come back to her. She stamped her feet on the floor.