The Hand that Trembles

FIFTY-TWO

At the end of September 1938, peace in Europe was assured. Neville Chamberlain waved his Munich treaty about. Adolf Hitler pronounced himself a friend of peace. He had admittedly gained a piece of Czechoslovakia but had no further imperialistic ambitions.

The news of ‘peace in our time’ reached Ante Persson by way of a Polish dentist who had just extracted one of his teeth. It was a frigid October evening. Ante could still recall shivering and spitting blood and listening to how the Pole, very disillusioned, described how the powerhouses of England and France had once again sold out their people.

Neither one of them was surprised. They had fought in Spain for a long time. They belonged to the veterans. Now they were imprisoned and awaiting certain death.

The Pole was a Communist, born in Cracow, and an amateur astronomer. He would entertain Ante and the others with stories about Copernicus and Giordano Bruno. His dental practice had been raided by Polish anti-Semites in 1935 and he had been a fugitive ever since. He came to Spain and Barcelona in the summer of 1937, and immediately enlisted in the defence of the Republic.

He was again employed as a dentist, this time in the field. He made no distinction between Communists, socialists, Catalan nationalists, or anarchists and even pulled out the aching wisdom teeth of imprisoned Falangists.

Now he was talking about Europe and his own country. The evening was growing even colder. Star after shooting star streaked the sky. In a way Ante was happy. He was among friends.

The Pole spoke remarkable German and Ante did not understand everything, but he picked up the fact that Munich was the start of a fire. Spain would soon fall into the hands of the Fascists, everyone knew that; the war was lost and now more and more countries and people would fall victim to the terror.

Ante’s left hand ached. He was afraid his whole hand would get infected. The soiled bandages around his finger stumps gave no protection. The repeated abuse drained his strength. In a way it didn’t matter. They were all going to die.

His entire body was beaten raw. That evening a week ago when he lost his fingers, he had fainted several times. The torturers had urinated on him. He still felt he stank. There were new questions the entire time. New blows. In the half darkness and through the pain that was like a red gauze over his eyes, Ante had discerned a man who had walked very close, leant over, and grinned in his face. Exhausted, Ante had tried to spit at him, to reach the face with a gob of phlegm, but he was too dehydrated, too weak, to succeed.

He received a blow that landed under the eye. In the haze, Ante had seen the man pick up a pair of pliers and hold it up in front of him.

‘Now you’re going to lose everything that sticks out,’ the torturer had whispered in Swedish. ‘We’ll start with the fingers on your left hand.’

Ante Persson awoke with a scream. Tanya, the new girl, was standing in the doorway of his room.

‘Were you dreaming?’ she asked.

He pulled himself up into a half-sitting position. He was sweating. Tanya walked over to his bed and put her hand on his chest. Ante Persson fumbled for her hand, clasped it in his own, and closed his eyes.

‘My friend,’ he mumbled.

‘The police are here,’ she said.

Once again an image of the pliers swam before his eyes. The pain made him wince and he squeezed her hand harder.

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’

The door was pushed open and the policemen from yesterday came in. Sammy Nilsson approached the bed.

‘Were you taking a morning nap?’

Persson did not reply.

‘You were supposed to wait outside,’ Tanya said.

‘That’s how they are,’ Persson said. ‘They just walk in.’

He turned his head and gazed at the certificate that designated him an honorary Spanish citizen.

‘What do you want?’

‘Could you leave us for a while?’ The policeman turned to Tanya.

‘I’m going to help Ante dress,’ she said defiantly. ‘You can wait in the hallway.’

‘Ante can stay in bed if he likes,’ the policeman said with a smile. ‘He won’t have to come with us.’

‘You can go,’ Persson said. ‘I’ll talk to the Gestapo for a while.’

The assistant gave Sammy Nilsson an angry look and left the room. Nilsson pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. The other policeman was standing at the window, looking out.

‘How did you get to know Nils Dufva?’

Persson didn’t answer.

‘We think you met in Spain. Is that correct?’

Persson shook his head.

‘Why are you lying?’

‘I have told you what you needed to know.’

‘A couple of hours ago, one of Nils Dufva’s relatives contacted us. She came down to the station. Her name is Jenny Holgersson and she lives in Dufva’s house, which she inherited.’

‘What does this have to do with me?’

‘She has another story. That it was neither you nor Sven-Arne who killed Dufva. That is what I believe.’

Ante closed his eyes.

‘It was Jenny’s husband,’ Nilsson said.

Ante Persson looked up and their eyes met.

‘According to Jenny, he crushed Dufva’s skull with the base of a lamp. The motive was that the old man was about to change his will. Jenny Holgersson would no longer receive a cent. Jenny Holgersson was present, but it was Niklas Öhman who-’

‘Shut up,’ Persson spat.

‘You got there too late,’ Sammy Nilsson said.