This Land is no Stranger Sarah Hollister (best biographies to read .txt) 📖

the 16th century, which meant that the dead had been lying there for a very long time. The snow’s icy, unbroken surface displayed no human footprints, although tracks of small animals appeared here and there.

“Come,” Hammar said. “The Dalgrens will have gathered themselves on the opposite side.” He guided her by the arm along a narrow, snow-cleared walk that ran between the graves, no more than a few feet wide. Around the side of the church, they passed a series of wooden hutches, roofed in slate.

“Those are the old church stalls,” Hammar explained. “People would make the weekly pilgrimage to church, starting their walk on Saturday, taking shelter in stalls by the church overnight and returning to the slog of the farm after their souls had been cleansed. No doubt your Dalgren ancestors sheltered there.”

He stopped in front of a modest and very ancient-looking gravestone, its lettering half-erased by time. “This is one of the oldest recorded in the province, Hjalmar Dalgren.”

Raucous calls broke the silence. Black shapes showed against the colorless sky, passing quickly overhead.

“Crows,” Hammar said, glancing up. “There’s a storm coming in, snow is on the way.”

Darker clouds piled up on the horizon to the west, an advancing front. There had been no new snow since Brand’s first day in Sweden arrived in Sweden.

In the far corner of the cemetery stood a small collection of mourners. Brand was dismayed at how few people were there. She counted ten. One for every decade of Elin Dalgren’s life, she thought morosely. Brand hesitated, feeling as though she was intruding. She imagined herself dropping into old Hjalmar Dalgren’s grave, cozying up in the cramped space with the dust and bones of her distant ancestor.

“We should join them,” Hammar said briskly. As they approached the grave he lowered his voice. “When the ground is frozen like this they build an overnight bonfire to thaw it out. Relatives gather around and tend the fire through the night. Reminisces. Alcohol. Toasts to the departed.”

Sanna and Folke Dalgren saw them and nodded solemnly. Brand followed Hammar as they took their place beside the other mourners. A clergyman intoned the liturgy, wearing a parka over his vestments. The crows passed over again. The flock appeared in frantic, random flight to avoid the coming storm.

19.

On the outside of a yellowed and cracked envelope, Brand saw words in a spidery script.

Till Veronika, min brors dotterdotter, från Elin Dalgren, Veronikas gammelfaster. Written helpfully in another hand was a translation: “To Veronika, my grand-niece, from Elin Dalgren, your grandfather’s sister.”

Sanna Dalgren presented the packet to Brand after Elin’s burial service. “I think you should read this, dear,” Sanna said.

“What is it?” Brand asked.

“Our family…” Sanna said, then didn’t finish the sentence. Her normally sunny face displayed a sadness. “My mamma carried the burden of many secrets. Your grandmother thought you needed to understand what happened, what brought your grandparents to emigrate to America. But Klara took her truth to the grave, leaving Elin to be the messenger.” The monologue seemed rehearsed, with Sanna's sadness slowly turning venomous as she spat out the final sentence.

Brand sat in the Saab, in the passenger seat for once. The car remained parked in the churchyard lot. Hammar was elsewhere, inside the old church, speaking with the relatives, she guessed. She took the packet Sanna had given her. She wanted to be alone while reading it.

Inside the envelope, a sheaf of close-written pages, first in Swedish, then, in different handwriting, a translation into English.

Dearest Veronika,

Now you will find out the truth. You were too young and too far away to know this. You might understand some but not all. I want to explain. We were a family, in more than just blood; Gustav, Klara, Alice, myself, and Loke Voss. Your grandfather Gustav and Loke did everything together when they were boys. Tumbling around in the green summers after berries. Swimming in the lakes and streams, in waters so cold they made you feel more alive than the day you were born.

Brand thought of the photograph she had discovered in Elin’s room, marked with her own name, as if it was an heirloom to be passed on. Loke Voss, the mysterious fifth figure in the shot, looked pale-eyed and dark while all the Dalgrens appeared sunny and carefree. He hovered on the edges of her family like a far-off storm cloud in a blue sky.

Loke and Gustav grew into their young teens and their friendship turned to war, the innocent kind, village raids between the Högvålen boys and those from Västvall, where all the Vosses were. “I broke Loke’s hand with my face once,” Gustav told me, and I laughed so hard because that was exactly how he phrased it.

I did not participate in the wild fun. Klara, Alice and I kept ourselves apart. Klara knew Loke had feelings for her but she only had eyes for Gustav. Maybe Loke’s sourness grew out of that, with jealousy being the beginning of hatred.

Soon for Gustav the revolution became everything. He dreamed so hard, he was so inspired! This was when he and Klara fell in love. Their courting was done to the tune of Marx and Engels.

I too believed in the hope of social justice. I could see class war happening right in front of my eyes, the capitalists squeezing us like they wanted blood from a stone. Poverty was pitiless in those days. Then of course came the Thirties, with the rise of the Nazis in Germany, and everything went dark and then went darker still. Not only Loke Voss but many others, in Sweden and Britain as well, studied hate under the tutelage of the Germans.

I admired his convictions, dear, dear Gustav. What turns one man one way and another man another way? Why did Gustav turn left while his old friend Loke turned right?

Gustav was merciless with his ridicule of Adolf Hitler, whom he always called “the house painter.” The man is lower than a