The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (32 page)

I lowered the binoculars and looked at him, wide-eyed. He gave a sombre nod and pointed to the cliff.

‘My relief at seeing Deerfoot soon gave way to desperation as I watched him speeding towards the cliff. It would be treacherous even to try jumping it at the end of February. The scree was bare at the bottom and then gradually got covered by snow. It was simply madness that Deerfoot, exhausted as he must be after coming over the mountains and with the wrong skis on, would even dare to attempt it. I tried to wave to him to stop, but he was already mustering strength and speed for the jump.’

There was no one to be seen on the mountainside or by the cliff today, and yet, as I listened to the story, I could see it so clearly, Deerfoot sailing over the edge.

‘It was the most terrifying moment of my life, standing here watching him launch himself over the edge of the cliff. At first, it looked as though he was heading straight for the stones. But he had obviously jumped on skis before and leaned forwards over his skis as he cut through the air. The skis just grazed the last big stones. He landed safely on the snow and remained crouching until he lost speed, and then he stood straight up again, pushing himself to get here as fast as he could. I thought he had lost his marbles. But when I was able to see his face clearly in the binoculars, there was no sign of fear or panic, just the manic determination to get down to me as quickly as possible. Once down in the valley, he fair flew along, his arms moving so fast that you could scarcely see them.’

He stopped abruptly and shook his head.

‘It’s still incredible that I did not understand what was going on. Do you?’

I shook my head slowly, without even thinking about it.

‘I still did not understand when he was down here on the fields and only yards from me. Then the world around me stopped when he pulled a lifeless baby, bundled up in a scarf and a woolly sweater, from inside his anorak.’

I looked down at the snow for a moment, and possibly admitted to myself that, like him, I should have realized. Fortunately, he immediately carried on.

‘If there is one dramatic event in my life I will never forget, that is it. Deerfoot slapped the baby on the cheeks twice, without any reaction, but still did not give up hope. “There’s still warmth in her,” he said, in a remarkably calm voice. Then he handed the baby to me and told me to put her in warm water. I was still paralysed and stood there without moving for a few seconds. Deerfoot told me again in a louder voice that I had to get her into hot water immediately. It almost sounded like an order. But it was only when he reached out to take the little girl back that I came to life and ran up the stairs with her.’

Despite the gravity of the situation, a broad grin slipped over Hans Andersson’s face.

‘Fortunately, my wife was bathing our son right then. You can imagine what she must have thought when I came charging in with another baby and threw her into the water, clothes and all. But she quickly understood the situation and tried to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. For several minutes there was no sign of life. Then there was a spasm in one of her tiny hands. And she started to howl.’

‘So little Sara came down from the mountains alive?’ I said.

He nodded solemnly.

‘Little Sara came down from the mountains alive – but only in the nick of time. Five minutes later, it may have been too late, the doctor who examined her said. But I tend to believe my wife, who says that even two minutes later would have been too late.’

‘How did Deerfoot react?’ I asked.

Hans Andersson pointed at the snow just by the wall of the house.

‘He lay there absolutely exhausted, flat on his back on the snow, and was still breathing heavily when I came out again. It was only then that I fully understood how physically gruelling the ski run over the mountains must have been. All the same, he was strangely relaxed and clear in the head. When I asked him whether he had prayed to God, he whispered that he no longer believed in God. And when I then said that the child would survive, he nodded and whispered that it gave the whole tragedy meaning after all. He stayed lying on the snow for some minutes more, but quickly bucked up after a cup of hot coffee. I jokingly said that he must never think of jumping the cliff again. He replied with a cursory smile that he had no intention of doing so. But then he added, gravely, that it had been a matter of life and death, and that the devil had indeed been at his heels. He had felt confident for the first part of the journey, so long as he heard the baby crying and felt her movements. But this was followed by a stage where he only heard the odd whimper, and then he heard nothing. She lay quite still against his stomach and he could feel her getting colder. He had quickly recognized the danger and skied as though possessed to get her to safety as fast as possible.’

Hans Andersson frowned and rolled his eyes.

‘I said, as did my wife and the doctor when he came, that what Deerfoot had done was truly a heroic deed. A new Birkebeiner endurance test was what the doctor called it. I did not know what he meant and had to look it up in a history book to discover the story of how King Sverre’s supporters carried the little Prince Håkon over the mountains in the winter of 1206. But Deerfoot smiled as soon as that was mentioned, and said, as was only too true, that there were several Birkebeiners so they could at least take turns in holding the baby. This, and other small comments that he made, reinforced the impression I had that he came from a well-to-do home and had a good education.’

This seemed like a reasonable assumption. My curiosity about Deerfoot was considerable, but at that moment was overtaken by my curiosity regarding his companion.

‘What about Harald Olesen? What had happened to him? He was obviously still alive.’

Hans Andersson nodded.

‘When Deerfoot recovered again, to my great relief he told me that Harald Olesen had survived and was on his way over the mountains. They had been caught in a very dramatic situation up there. Three of the German soldiers had turned back with the onslaught of the storm, but the three others had continued. After sheltering from the storm overnight in the mountains, there had then been an exchange of fire that had left the three German soldiers and two refugees dead. Harald Olesen had stayed behind to bury them, while Deerfoot had taken the little girl and gone ahead. He hoped that Harald Olesen would be able to find his way here by following his tracks. Which he did, three or four hours later. He had obviously taken it slower and chosen the less risky path through the woods. The story he told was the same as that Deerfoot had told. Once the storm had died down around dawn, they had been caught in an exchange of fire, and whereas he had managed to shoot the three German soldiers, he had not been able to prevent the two refugees being shot. He had laid the five bodies out at the back of a cave and then followed Deerfoot’s tracks. I made a short account of events for the record and contacted Stockholm. As far as I understood, the exchange of fire had been on the Norwegian side of the border, and Stockholm soon lost interest once they established that no Swedish citizens were involved.’

There was another short pause before Hans Andersson carried on.

‘By the evening, the baby was doing well and crawling around on the rug with our little son. It warmed your heart to watch her. But otherwise, the atmosphere was oppressive. Harald Olesen and Deerfoot stayed the night in separate rooms. Both seemed to be troubled. I thought to myself that it was not so strange, given what they had been through. I asked tentatively if they thought it wise to return to Norway after this, but they were both adamant that they would set off again after breakfast the next day. But I was in for another shock before they left.’

I was following his words with intense interest.

‘It was a complete coincidence that I witnessed this. I had opened a window upstairs to throw out my shaving water when I saw Harald Olesen and Deerfoot. They had gone out and were standing by the house wall just over there by the corner. I could not hear what they were saying, but quickly realized that it was an emotionally charged conversation. If you have been a teenager yourself and have had teenage children, you will certainly have experienced a few serious confrontations. But this was still one of the most dramatic conversations I have ever observed. Deerfoot, who otherwise was always so calm, was suddenly beside himself with rage. He pointed a threatening finger right in Harald Olesen’s face, and his other hand was balled into a fist, which he waved around, and he was talking fast and hard like a machine gun. Harald Olesen himself barely said a word. He was leaning against the wall, his face drained of colour, and was shaking so much that I was afraid he would faint at any minute. It was quite an unbelievable sight. I had never seen either of them like this before. When I bid them farewell half an hour later, everything was as normal. Deerfoot had his mischievous smile again and fooled around with the little girl for a while before he left. It almost made me wonder if what I had seen was a strange dream of some sort. But it was not. Once they had left, I came over here to the wall. There were obvious signs that they had been here, and Harald Olesen’s shoes had sunk deep into the snow.’

I nodded. The fact that Deerfoot had got angry and threatened Harald Olesen would seem to fit relatively well with what had happened twenty-four years later.

‘Was that the last you saw of them both?’

Hans Andersson nodded.

‘Yes – that is to say, almost. Neither of them came back here during the war, and I have not seen or heard of Deerfoot since then. But I did meet Harald Olesen again some years after the war. I happened to be visiting my family in Oslo when he was giving a lecture in town. I went up to speak to him afterwards. He recognized me and thanked me for all my help during the war, but was obviously busy and not inclined to chat. Over the years I had often wondered what had happened to Deerfoot, so I tried to ask. But he just mumbled in a quiet voice that it was a sad story. Then he excused himself, as he had to be somewhere else, and made a dash for it.’

We were both silent for a while. It was clear that Harald Olesen did not want to talk about the disastrous trip and his guide, and no doubt he had his reasons. I wracked my brains to think what these might be, and who, now that Harald Olesen was dead, might know more about it and about Deerfoot.

‘The refugee who came with Deerfoot and Harald Olesen in 1942 – do you know where we might find him?’

Hans Andersson gave an apologetic shake of the head.

‘He was the son of an Austrian refugee and was called Helmut Schmidt. He lived in Vienna the last time I heard from him, but I doubt there is much to be gained there. Helmut was not with them that night, and when he came here after the war, he did not know what Deerfoot was really called, or where to find him. Helmut would gladly have travelled to the ends of the earth to give him more than a token of his gratitude, he said. He would never forget that cold and pitch-black night when Deerfoot miraculously guided him safely over the mountains to freedom. They had set off together after he had been dropped by a car on a country road near Elverum. Deerfoot had appeared on his own, out of nowhere, on skis. It was impossible to say where he came from.’

I cursed silently. This Deerfoot really was frustratingly good not only at showing the way, but also at covering his own tracks.

Hans Andersson and I stood without saying anything for some minutes, looking up at the snowy mountainside in silent understanding. We were no doubt both thinking that the strange story of the young Deerfoot’s war efforts was in some way of great significance to the murder of Harald Olesen, but it was not easy to fathom how. Whether Deerfoot was still alive twenty-four years later or not, and where in the world he might be, remained an unsolved mystery. I had at last caught a glimpse of this mysterious figure here in Sälen, only to lose sight of him again. Deerfoot had, light-footed as ever, gone back up the snowy mountainside one freezing-cold day in 1944 and all trace of him stopped there.

Hans Andersson and I exchanged looks. He understood what I was thinking and pointed up to the mountain pass.

‘Deerfoot followed some way behind Harald Olesen when they set off for the mountains again that morning. I stood here with my binoculars and watched him disappear over the pass. I have no idea what happened to him after that, but I still wonder every year when I stand here and see the first signs of spring.’

I promised to let him know if I found out any more about Deerfoot, and then asked what had happened to Sara Sundqvist afterwards.

‘That too is a sad story, though of course it was a wonder that her life had been saved. She was the sweetest little girl and played happily here on the floor with my son for several weeks. My wife and I often talked of adopting her, but that did not happen in the end. From the information that Harald Olesen gave about her parents, it was clear that they not only were refugees, but also Jews. When he heard this, my father-in-law was beside himself. So we gave up the idea of keeping the little girl and sent her to the adoption agency in Gothenburg. Which caused us great pain. For many years we had no idea what had happened to little Sara. But apparently she was taken in by good people, and despite such a difficult start in life, things are going well for her now.’

I suddenly felt the icy claws of suspicion grip my heart and asked perhaps a little too quickly how he could know that, and this time his answer was short and swift.

‘Because she came here and I told her the story too. It must have been a couple of years ago now. It was apparently the first time she had heard her parents’ names and been told how she came to be adopted in Gothenburg. She was naturally very interested in Harald Olesen, and even more so in Deerfoot.’

He realized that something was amiss and shot me a questioning look.

‘I called the head office to check before I told her anything. But they were of the same opinion as me: that she had a right to know what we knew of her story. It was all such a long time ago, and did not involve anything criminal, certainly not here in Sweden.’