The Hand that Trembles

FIFTY-FOUR

‘There won’t be any charges,’ Sven-Arne Persson said.

Ante lay outstretched on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sven-Arne was unsure if Ante had heard what he said, but went on anyway.

‘They only have the girl’s version. The guy denies everything.’

Ante turned his head and looked at his nephew but didn’t say anything.

‘It would be strange if he did, of course,’ he said. ‘He’s kept his mouth shut for twelve years, so why would he start talking now? And who knows what really happened? She seems a bit off, to put it mildly.’

‘You’ve met her?’

‘I went there,’ Sven-Arne said.

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to see the house.’

Ante snorted.

‘“See the house,”’ he echoed. ‘Why on earth? And then you went and turned yourself in?’

Ante braced himself with his hands and managed to drag himself up into a seated position.

‘The police say they have nothing. I talked with the prosecutor this morning. I know him from before. He said the same thing.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, “why”?’

‘Why did you confess?’

‘I didn’t want you to have any trouble,’ Sven-Arne said.

‘No, I didn’t even get that,’ Ante said. ‘That man was a pig and lived off of our money, like a civil servant.’

‘But why did you want to see him dead? Wouldn’t it have been better to reveal his past and let him bear the public humiliation?’

Sven-Arne stared at Ante. He didn’t answer. It had always been that way: Ante made himself inaccessible and left so many questions unanswered when it suited him. Sven-Arne had a desire to attack. Ante had closed his eyes to oppression as long as it was done in the name of the working classes, made light when human rights were violated as long as it was for the right cause. But why take up the old worn arguments? He knew his uncle too well and had been through it all so many times. Ante’s belief in justice was in large part his own. He had chosen the step-by-step reformer’s path and found political work a bottomless marsh. He had participated in the game, been underhanded and careless with the truth, and seen his party lose its health and its original mission. As a county politician he had swallowed and swallowed until his disgust stuck in his throat. He had stepped off the track. Chosen to flee. Now he was sitting in front of an old man who had fought his whole life and who had even been prepared to offer his life to resist Nazism.

‘Let’s drop it,’ Sven-Arne said.

Ante opened his eyes. Sven-Arne saw that he was touched. It occurred to him that he had never seen him cry.

‘There’s one thing,’ Ante said. ‘I’m going to die soon. I’m living on borrowed time, as they say, and I have lived an eventful life, but there is one thing that has pained me for seventy years.’

‘And that is?’ Sven-Arne prompted after a long pause, waiting for the continuation.

‘Do you remember the Brush?’

‘The Bulgarian who blew himself up?’

‘He was a giant.’

Sven-Arne nodded. He had understood as much. The Brush had always popped up in Ante’s stories. The miner was the very image of courage and principled action.

‘He died a miserable death,’ Ante said.

Now he was crying openly. Tears searched their way down the wrinkled cheeks and the wiry whiskers on his chin. Sven-Arne nodded, but could not manage to say anything.

‘I betrayed him,’ Ante sobbed.

‘What are you talking about? You couldn’t help-’

‘I gave them his name! The story about blowing himself up was pure fabrication. I created that story to be able to live. I made it true.’

Sven-Arne leant over and put his hand on Ante’s knee.

‘What happened?’

Ante held up his left hand.

‘This is what Nils Dufva did! He made me terrified. I didn’t want to die. Not then. That man took everything from me, my honour and peace. I could not resist him. There were others who did, but I gave way.

‘Every time I used my shovel, every time I worked a load on a construction site, every time I put on my shirt, every single minute of the day I am reminded of my betrayal. You carry your hand with you. It can’t be stuffed into a drawer. You see, two fingers is what the Brush was worth.’

Ante stared at his own hand as if it was an unfamiliar and frightening figure.

‘By a coincidence I discovered that Dufva lived in this town. It was many years ago and I should have looked him up right away and sunk the knife in his Fascist heart. But I didn’t have the guts. And then it was too late. I didn’t even manage that much, and now I’m going to die.’