Magnus Sjögren

(1929–1994)

married to Isabella (1928–)

Sara Sjögren (1931–)

Martin (1948–)

Erik Sjögren (1951–)

Harriet (1950–?)

Håkan Sjögren (1955–)

Harald (1911–)

Märit (1911–1988)

married to Ingrid

married to Algot Günther

(1925–1992)

(1904–1987)

Birger (1939–)

Ossian Günther (1930–)

Cecilia (1946–)

married to Agnes (1933–)

Anita (1948–)

Jakob Günther (1952–)

Greger (1912–1974)

Ingrid (1916–1990)

married to Gerda (1922–)

married to Harry Karlman

Alexander (1946–)

(1912–1984)

Maria Karlman (1944–)

Gunnar Karlman (1948–)

Gustav (1918–1955)

unmarried, childless

Henrik (1920–)

married to Edith

(1921–1958) childless

As Blomkvist wrote down all the names, the list had grown to forty people. It was 3:30 in the morning

and the thermometer read −6°F. He longed for his own bed on Bellmansgatan.

He was awoken by the workman from Telia. By 11:00 he was hooked up and no longer felt quite as professionally handicapped. On the other hand, his own telephone remained stubbornly silent. He was starting to feel quite pig-headed and would not call the office.

He switched on his email programme and looked rapidly through the nearly 350 messages sent to him

over the past week. He saved a dozen; the rest were spam or mailing lists that he subscribed to. The first email was from <demokrat88@yahoo.com>: I HOPE YOU SUCK COCK IN THE SLAMMER YOU

FUCKING COMMIE PIG. He filed it in the “intelligent criticism” folder.

He wrote to <erika.berger@millennium.se> : “Hi Ricky. Just to tell you that I’ve got the Net working and can be reached when you can forgive me. Hedeby is a rustic place, well worth a visit. M.” When it

felt like lunchtime he put his iBook in his bag and walked to Susanne’s Bridge Café. He parked himself at

his usual corner table. Susanne brought him coffee and sandwiches, casting an inquisitive glance at his computer. She asked him what he was working on. For the first time Blomkvist used his cover story. They

exchanged pleasantries. Susanne urged him to check with her when he was ready for the real revelations.

“I’ve been serving Vangers for thirty-five years, and I know most of the gossip about that family,” she

said, and sashayed off to the kitchen.

With children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—whom he had not bothered to include—the

brothers Fredrik and Johan Vanger had approximately fifty living offspring today. The family had a tendency to live to a ripe old age. Fredrik Vanger lived to be seventy-eight, and his brother Johan to seventy-two. Of Fredrik’s sons who were yet alive, Harald was ninety-two and Henrik was eighty-two.

The only exception was Gustav, who died of lung disease at the age of thirty-seven. Vanger had explained that Gustav had always been sickly and had gone his own way, never really fitting in with the

rest of the family. He never married and had no children.

The others who had died young had succumbed to other factors than illness. Richard Vanger was killed

in the Winter War, only thirty-three years old. Gottfried Vanger, Harriet’s father, had drowned the year before she disappeared. And Harriet herself was only sixteen. Mikael made note of the strange symmetry

in that particular branch of the family—grandfather, father, and daughter had all been struck by misfortune.

Richard’s only remaining descendant was Martin Vanger who, at fifty-four, was still unmarried. But Vanger had explained that his nephew was a veritable hermit with a woman who lived in Hedestad.

Blomkvist noted two factors in the family tree. The first was that no Vanger had ever divorced or remarried, even if their spouse had died young. He wondered how common that was, in terms of statistics.

Cecilia Vanger had been separated from her husband for years, but apparently, they were still married.

The other peculiarity was that whereas Fredrik Vanger’s descendants, including Henrik, had played leading roles in the business and lived primarily in or near Hedestad, Johan Vanger’s branch of the family, which produced only daughters, had married and dispersed to Stockholm, Malmö, and Göteborg or abroad. And they only came to Hedestad for summer holidays or the more important meetings. The single

exception was Ingrid Vanger, whose son, Gunnar Karlman, lived in Hedestad. He was the editor in chief

of the Hedestad Courier.

Thinking as a private detective might, Vanger thought that the underlying motive for Harriet’s murder might be found in the structure of the company—the fact that early on he had made it known that Harriet

was special to him; the motive might have been to harm Vanger himself, or perhaps Harriet had discovered some sensitive information concerning the company and thereby became a threat to someone.

These were mere speculations; nevertheless, in this manner he had identified a circle consisting of thirteen individuals whom he considered to be of potential interest.

Blomkvist’s conversation with Vanger the day before had been illuminating on one other point. From the start the old man had talked to Blomkvist about so many members of his family in a contemptuous and

denigrating manner. It struck him as odd. Blomkvist wondered whether the patriarch’s suspicions about his family had warped his judgement in the matter of Harriet’s disappearance, but now he was starting to

realise that Vanger had made an amazingly sober assessment.

The image that was emerging revealed a family that was socially and financially successful, but in all

the more ordinary aspects was quite clearly dysfunctional.

Henrik Vanger’s father had been a cold, insensitive man who sired his children and then let his wife look

after their upbringing and welfare. Until the children reached the age of sixteen they barely saw their father except at special family gatherings when they were expected to be present but also invisible.

Henrik could not remember his father ever expressing any form of love, even in the smallest way. On the

contrary, the son was often told that he was incompetent and was the target of devastating criticism.

Corporal punishment was seldom used; it wasn’t necessary. The only times he had won his father’s respect came later in life, through his accomplishments within the Vanger Corporation.

The oldest brother, Richard, had rebelled. After an argument—the reason for which was never

discussed in the family—the boy had moved to Uppsala to study. There had been sown the seeds of the the

Nazi career which Vanger had already mentioned, and which would eventually lead to the Finnish trenches. What the old man had not mentioned previously was that two other brothers had had similar careers.

In 1930 Harald and Greger had followed in Richard’s footsteps to Uppsala. The two had been close,

but Vanger was not sure to what extent they had spent time with Richard. It was quite clear that the brothers all joined Per Engdahl’s fascist movement, The New Sweden. Harald had loyally followed Per

Engdahl over the years, first to Sweden’s National Union, then to the Swedish Opposition group, and finally The New Swedish Movement after the war. Harald continued to be a member until Engdahl died in

the nineties, and for certain periods he was one of the key contributors to the hibernating Swedish fascist movement.

Harald Vanger studied medicine in Uppsala and landed almost immediately in circles that were

obsessed with race hygiene and race biology. For a time he worked at the Swedish Race Biology Institute,

and as a physician he became a prominent campaigner for the sterilisation of undesirable elements in the

population.

Quote, Henrik Vanger, tape 2, 02950:

Harald went even further. In 1937 he co-authored—under a pseudonym, thank God—a book

entitled The People’s New Europe. I didn’t find this out until the seventies. I have a copy that you can read. It must be one of the most disgusting books ever published in the Swedish language.

Harald argued not only for sterilisation but also for euthanasia—actively putting to death people

who offended his aesthetic tastes and didn’t fit his image of the perfect Swedish race. In other words, he was appealing for wholesale murder in a text that was written in impeccable academic

prose and contained all the required medical arguments. Get rid of those who are handicapped.

Don’t allow the Saami people to spread; they have a Mongolian influence. People who are

mentally ill would regard death as a form of liberation, wouldn’t they? Loose women, vagrants,

gypsies, and Jews—you can imagine. In my brother’s fantasies, Auschwitz could have been

located in Dalarna.

After the war Greger Vanger became a secondary-school teacher and eventually the headmaster of the Hedestad preparatory school. Vanger thought that he no longer belonged to any party after the war and had

given up Nazism. He died in 1974, and it wasn’t until he went through his brother’s correspondence that

he learned that in the fifties Greger had joined the politically ineffectual but totally crackpot sect called the Nordic National Party. He had remained a member until his death.

Quote, Henrik Vanger, tape 2, 04167:

Consequently, three of my brothers were politically insane. How sick were they in other respects?

The only brother worthy of a measure of empathy in Vanger’s eyes was the sickly Gustav, who died of

lung disease in 1955. Gustav had never been interested in politics, and he seemed to be some sort of misanthropic artistic soul, with absolutely no interest in business or working in the Vanger Corporation.

Blomkvist asked Vanger: “Now you and Harald are the only ones left. Why did he move back to Hedeby?”

“He moved home in 1979. He owns that house.”

“It must feel strange living so close to a brother that you hate.”

“I don’t hate my brother. If anything, I may pity him. He’s a complete idiot, and he’s the one who hates

me.”

“He hates you?”

“Precisely. I think that’s why he came back here. So that he could spend his last years hating me at close quarters.”

“Why does he hate you?”

“Because I got married.”

“I think you’re going to have to explain that.”

Vanger had lost contact with his older brothers early on. He was the only brother to show an aptitude for

business—he was his father’s last hope. He had no interest in politics and steered clear of Uppsala.

Instead he studied economics in Stockholm. After he turned eighteen he spent every break and summer holiday working at one of the offices within the Vanger Corporation or working with the management of

one of its companies. He became familiar with all the labyrinths of the family business.

On 10 June, 1941—in the midst of an all-out war—Vanger was sent to Germany for a six-week visit at

the Vanger Corporation business offices in Hamburg. He was only twenty-one and the Vanger’s German

agent, a company veteran by the name of Hermann Lobach, was his chaperone and mentor.

“I won’t tire you with all the details, but when I went there, Hitler and Stalin were still good friends

and there wasn’t yet an Eastern Front. Everyone still believed that Hitler was invincible. There was a feeling of . . . both optimism and desperation. I think those are the right words. More than half a century later, it’s still difficult to put words to the mood. Don’t get me wrong—I was not a Nazi, and in my eyes

Hitler seemed like some absurd character in an operetta. But it would have been almost impossible not to

be infected by the optimism about the future, which was rife among ordinary people in Hamburg. Despite

the fact that the war was getting closer, and several bombing raids were carried out against Hamburg during the time I was there, the people seemed to think it was mostly a temporary annoyance—that soon

there would be peace and Hitler would establish his Neuropa. People wanted to believe that Hitler was God. That’s what it sounded like in the propaganda.”

Vanger opened one of his many photograph albums.

“This is Lobach. He disappeared in 1944, presumably lost in some bombing raid. We never knew what

his fate was. During my weeks in Hamburg I became close to him. I was staying with him and his family

in an elegant apartment in a well-to-do neighbourhood of Hamburg. We spent time together every day. He

was no more a Nazi than I was, but for convenience he was a member of the party. His membership card

opened doors and facilitated opportunities for the Vanger Corporation—and business was precisely what

we did. We built freight wagons for their trains—I’ve always wondered whether any of our wagons were

destined for Poland. We sold fabric for their uniforms and tubes for their radio sets—although officially

we didn’t know what they were using the goods for. And Lobach knew how to land a contract; he was entertaining and good-natured. The perfect Nazi. Gradually I began to see that he was also a man who was

desperately trying to hide a secret.

“In the early hours of June 22 in 1941, Lobach knocked on the door of my bedroom. My room was next

to his wife’s bedroom, and he signalled me to be quiet, get dressed, and come with him. We went downstairs and sat in the smoking salon. Lobach had been up all night. He had the radio on, and I realised that something serious had happened. Operation Barbarossa had begun. Germany had invaded the Soviet

Union on Midsummer Eve.” Vanger gestured in resignation. “Lobach took out two glasses and poured a

generous aquavit for each of us. He was obviously shaken. When I asked him what it all meant, he replied

with foresight that it meant the end for Germany and Nazism. I only half believed him—Hitler seemed undefeatable, after all—but Lobach and I drank a toast to the fall of Germany. Then he turned his attention to practical matters.”

Blomkvist nodded to signal that he was still following the story.

“First, he had no possibility of contacting my father for instructions, but on his own initiative he had decided to cut short my visit to Germany and send me home. Second, he asked me to do something for him.”

Vanger pointed to a yellowed portrait of a dark-haired woman, in three-quarter view.

“Lobach had been married for forty years, but in 1919 he met a wildly beautiful woman half his age,

and he fell hopelessly in love with her. She was a poor, simple seamstress. Lobach courted her, and like

so many other wealthy men, he could afford to install her in an apartment a convenient distance from his

office. She became his mistress. In 1921 she had a daughter, who was christened Edith.”

“Rich older man, poor young woman, and a love child—that can’t have caused much of a scandal in the

forties,” Blomkvist said.

“Absolutely right. If it hadn’t been for one thing. The woman was Jewish, and consequently Lobach was the father of a Jew in the midst of Nazi Germany. He was what they called a ‘traitor to his race.’ ”

“Ah . . . That does change the situation. What happened?”

“Edith’s mother had been picked up in 1939. She disappeared, and we can only guess what her fate was. It was known, of course, that she had a daughter who was not yet included on any transport list, and

who was now being sought by the department of the Gestapo whose job it was to track down fugitive Jews. In the summer of 1941, the week that I arrived in Hamburg, Edith’s mother was somehow linked to

Lobach, and he was summoned for an interview. He acknowledged the relationship and his paternity, but

he stated that he had no idea where his daughter might be, and he had not had any contact with her in ten

years.”

“So where was the daughter?”

“I had seen her every day in the Lobachs’ home. A sweet and quiet twenty-year-old girl who cleaned

my room and helped serve dinner. By 1937 the persecution of the Jews had been going on for several years, and Edith’s mother had begged Lobach for help. And he did help—Lobach loved his illegitimate

child just as much as his legitimate children. He hid her in the most unlikely place he could think of—right in front of everyone’s nose. He had arranged for counterfeit documents, and he had taken her in as their

housekeeper.”

“Did his wife know who she was?”

“No, it seemed she had no idea. It had worked for four years, but now Lobach felt the noose tightening.

It was only a matter of time before the Gestapo would come knocking on the door. Then he went to get his

daughter and introduced her to me as such. She was very shy and didn’t even dare look me in the eye. She

must have been up half the night waiting to be called. Lobach begged me to save her life.”

“How?”

“He had arranged the whole thing. I was supposed to be staying another three weeks and then to take

the night train to Copenhagen and continue by ferry across the sound—a relatively safe trip, even in wartime. But two days after our conversation a freighter owned by the Vanger Corporation was to leave

Hamburg headed for Sweden. Lobach wanted to send me with the freighter instead, to leave Germany without delay. The change in my travel plans had to be approved by the security service; it was a formality, but not a problem. But Lobach wanted me on board that freighter.”

“Together with Edith, I presume.”

“Edith was smuggled on board, hidden inside one of three hundred crates containing machinery. My job

was to protect her if she should be discovered while we were still in German territorial waters, and to

prevent the captain of the ship from doing anything stupid. Otherwise I was supposed to wait until we were a good distance from Germany before I let her out.”

“It sounds terrifying.”

“It sounded simple to me, but it turned into a nightmare journey. The captain was called Oskar Granath,

and he was far from pleased to be made responsible for his employer’s snotty little heir. We left Hamburg

around 9:00 in the evening in late June. We were just making our way out of the inner harbour when the

air-raid sirens went off. A British bombing raid—the heaviest I had then experienced, and the harbour was, of course, the main target. But somehow we got through, and after an engine breakdown and a miserably stormy night in mine-filled waters we arrived the following afternoon at Karlskrona. You’re probably going to ask me what happened to the girl.”

“I think I know.”

“My father was understandably furious. I had put everything at risk with my idiotic venture. And the girl could have been deported from Sweden at any time. But I was already just as hopelessly in love with

her as Lobach had been with her mother. I proposed to her and gave my father an ultimatum—either he

accepted our marriage or he’d have to look for another fatted calf for the family business. He gave in.”

“But she died?”

“Yes, far too young, in 1958. She had a congenital heart defect. And it turned out that I couldn’t have

children. And that’s why my brother hates me.”

“Because you married her.”

“Because—to use his own words—I married a filthy Jewish whore.”

“But he’s insane.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

CHAPTER 10