Finallyhe hoisted himself out of the water, had a quick shower and went into thesauna. If there was room he always lay on the top bench. On this occasion therewas room. The hot, dry air burned his palate. So as not to scorch himself onthe wood he was careful to spread out his towel. But first of all he nodded tothe others sitting there, then bent down for the ladle in a bucket on the floorand poured water on the stove. Four other men were there. A young,vulnerable-looking man in his early twenties, gawping at the others' sexualorgans, was most interested in an athlete in his early forties – Will W – whomGunnarstranda had arrested three times for GBH and extortion. Will gave the policemana measured nod and continued to stroke his muscles with circumspection and wipethe sweat off his forehead with a towel. The other two men were elderly, partof a crowd which had been larger, and they often talked about their latecompanions. Today their attentions were turned to someone called Per who,according to them, had won the war single-handedly. They talked about Ronny,who was bullied when they went to Lakkegata School because he had gone to bedwith his sister. They talked about Francis who had worked all his life in theNorwegian Parliament and had even disciplined the Prime Minister. Gunnarstrandalay back on the bench listening and waiting for his brother-in-law.
Itwas just after seven in the evening when he wandered back through his officedoor. He had been given three names to choose from. The first was a journalistin Trondheim who had written a number of popular science books about the area.The second a knowledgeable layman who could produce the most astonishing new factsfrom subjects which most considered exhausted long ago. According to hisbrother-in-law the snag here was that the man had links with neo-Nazi groups.Gunnarstranda opted to take his chances with the third name on the pad – aretired history professor.
Hesat down on his office chair and drank a cup of coffee which his stomach toldhim he ought not to drink. He pulled out the lowest drawer with his foot. Withthe phone to his ear and his foot on the drawer, he listened to the phoneringing and contemplated the point where his black sock met his blue longjohns.
'Yes,'said a woman's reedy voice.
'Myname is Gunnarstranda,' the policeman said. 'I work for the Oslo policeauthorities. Have I got through to Professor Engelschøn?'
'Yes…Roar!' the voice shouted after a brief pause, and the policeman heard thereceiver being put down on a table. 'Roar! A call from the police!'
Itwas quiet and Gunnarstranda could hear heavy footsteps running over creakingparquet flooring.
'Engelschøn,'said a hoarse voice.
Gunnarstrandaintroduced himself.
'Delightedto meet you,' Engelschøn said expectantly.
'I'vebeen told you are the person in Norway who knows most about the resistancemovement during the German Occupation,' Gunnarstranda said, looking at the oldphotograph on the desk.
'Byno means,' Engelschøn said, and repeated himself: 'By no means.'
'I'mtrying to trace a woman,' the police officer said.
'Well,you police should be in a better position to do that than me.'
'Thisis connected with the period of the Occupation,' Gunnarstranda explained. 'Thewoman is Norwegian, but was supposed to be married to a gentleman of someprominence during the war. She was christened Amalie and her maiden name wasBruun with two 'u's, Amalie Bruun.'
ProfessorEngelschøn's house was the type of residence estate agents splash money on toadvertise in newspapers. The house was in Snarøya. The roof ridge which toweredover the trees bore two chimneys and overlooked a 1930s tarred, wooden housewith intricately worked windows and pillars by the front door. The buildingreminded Gunnarstranda of Frognerseteren Restaurant and large farms inGudbrandsdal valley.
Yetthe house was different from most others in the district. There were nolow-slung Italian cars next to it. There were no sleek setters running aroundin the garden, and there were no security company signs hanging over theentrance issuing dire warnings. In general there were no signs of the vulgarnouveau-riche culture which was hemming in the few remaining habitations withsoul in and around the capital. The drive was covered with snow. Just onenarrow, winding path had been cleared through the carpet of snow, stretchingfrom the broad doorsteps to a rusty post box. The latter was secured with wireto a fence post which had been cemented in a long time ago. The steps weresnow-free. A snow shovel and a piassava broom stood against the wall. The drystems of a creeper clung tight to the round wooden pillars, waiting for thechance to transform the entrance into a green portal in the summer.
Hewas shown in by a stooped elderly lady with her hair in a bun who peered at himthrough two thick lenses.
Thefirst thing that met Gunnarstranda when he entered was an aroma of green soap,lavender and lightly salted cod. It was a smell that took him back to hisyouth. At once he could see before him his mother's fat legs beneath her apronas she melted egg butter for the fish, and he saw the quiet nook in the flat wherethe black oak dining table was placed, between the stove and his father'sbookshelf. As he stood there, struck by his confrontation with a smell from hischildhood years, his eyes wandered around the house interior.
Twoarmchairs had pride of place in front of an old
TV.Some knitting had been casually discarded on one of the chairs. A pair ofglasses with a broad black frame lay on the coffee table. Beside them anashtray emblazoned with the design belonging to a long since forgotten brand ofcigarette – Abdullah. A curved briar pipe with a chipped mouthpiece restedagainst the rim of the ashtray. On the wall, family pictures in oval frameshung around an embroidered motif of Norwegian nature: two elk drinking waterfrom a pool in the wood. A wall clock struck a muffled chime to indicate thatit was half past eight as Professor Engelschøn lumbered towards him.
Theprofessor took him into a study in which every single square centimetre of wallspace was covered with books. A computer with a flickering screensaver shone onto a desk awash with paper. Engelschøn's hair was grey and bristly and combedup rather than back. His complexion was pale and marked with deep furrows. Theheavy chin hung like a digger's bucket under the sullen mouth. From behind hisdesk, his glasses down his nose, he resembled a protrudent bloodhound guardinga consignment of bones and meat from the slaughterhouse.
'Infact the woman you are searching for is rather interesting,' he growled in hishoarse voice and cleared his throat. 'I have found several pictures of her.Bruun was indeed her maiden name, Amalie Bruun. It was no easy task, but youput me on the trail. In 1944 she married Klaus Fromm, who was, as you pointedout, German. But not just any German. He was a judge, stationed here in Norwayduring the war.'
Gunnarstrandawhistled softly.
'KlausFromm's details in the NSDAP and SS go back to 1934 when he was twenty-fouryears old.'
Gunnarstrandafrowned as he did the arithmetic and said: 'And you're sure of this?'
Engelschønlowered his glasses. The look he sent was cool and judgemental. 'Whorecommended me, did you say?'
Gunnarstrandadismissed this question with a wave. 'What you've told me is something of asurprise, but we can come back to that. If this man Fromm was twenty- four in1934, he would be ninety now – assuming he's alive.'
'Well,that's possible. I haven't been able to find that out. Do you smoke?'
Gunnarstrandanodded.
'ThankGod,' the professor said and clamped his teeth round the mouthpiece of a Ronsonpipe he produced from a drawer in the desk. He talked out of the corner of hismouth as he attempted to light up: 'Klaus Fromm had military and legal training,and in the late 1930s was appointed judge at the SS courts in Berlin. He cameto Oslo in May 1940 where he took up a higher position in what was known as theSS und Polizeigericht Nord – which was a court that was in fact meant forGermans, but also sentenced Norwegian resistance fighters.' Engelschøn spread asweet aroma of pipe tobacco around the room.