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Authors: Erik Valeur
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a long night in an uncomfortable position and hadn’t even had his first cigarette yet. “If you knew how many children were put up for adoption in this country during those … thousands and thousands … whole battalions of healthy Danish babies given away. And it wasn’t even that long ago,” he scoffed and then snatched the magazine from the table.
Including the centerfold, the article was six pages long. The italicized headline on the first page of the feature was nearly identical to the one on the cover: “ Who Will Adopt Us?”
An explanatory caption accompanied every single photo in the spread. Under the image of a sad, crying child: Per (in checkered overalls) is a willful little man of 17 months.
Under the image of a chubby, melancholy girl sitting on a polar bear rug: What do you think of Dorthe in her pretty white blouse?
The next showed a cheerless girl in a floral dress: Lise looks quite down. She is only 18 months and cross-eyed, but that can be fixed .
The largest photo showed a dark-haired boy in a white bed. Behind him the wallpaper was decorated with odd little round elephants drawn in a childlike fashion. The graininess of the spread made it hard to decipher the elephants’ curved tusks and tails, and their raised trunks.
Under this photo was the caption: One elephant marched along … but where is it going? When you’re only 9 days old, you don’t know much about the future .
“This is the original article—the mother article if you will—of the excerpt that was included in the anonymous package,” Knud said, though it was obvious to Nils.
“It’s from the same year as the form,” he continued. “Whoever sent it to us has this magazine—and something he wants to share—and he’s telling us where to start looking. At the Kongslund orphanage. In 1961.”
Again he slumped onto the battered wastebasket.
“That’s the year I was born.” It was the first time Nils had spoken.
“Yeah—me too. In fact, it was one of the biggest baby-boom years in Danish history.”
Knud closed the magazine and tossed it aside. “Next week the orphanage will celebrate the retired matron’s anniversary—the famous Ms. Ladegaard, who back in the day was simply called Magna—and on that occasion, they’ll bring all the old experts on early childhood education to Skodsborg. Plenty of politicians and famous people will be there, as you might expect given all the talk lately about childrearing, stress, and institutionalization.”
The two men headed outside through the empty editorial office and climbed into Nils’s beige Mercedes.
“In 1989, Magna was succeeded by an equally formidable woman,” Knud said. “Susanne Ingemann.”
Nils silently noted the journalist’s strange tone of voice as they drove along the harbor toward Kongens Nytorv.
“While everyone else was celebrating Liberation Day last night, a crisis meeting was held at the Ministry of National Affairs,” Knud said after a long pause. “I know this from my source in the ministry. Do you know why?”
As usual, Nils said nothing—there was no reason to—the reporter would answer his own question as he always did.
“Because of the anonymous letter that Orla Berntsen received. My source wasn’t at the meeting, but they discussed the mysterious letter for at least an hour—and then decided to seek the assistance of an expert … a former assistant chief of police in Copenhagen.”
Nils sped up through the soft curve near Sølyst and Emiliekilde. It was a gray but mild spring day. The morning’s first sailboats were already making their way across Øresund, dozens of them.
“He’s one of the minister’s old acquaintances, and he runs his own company, does security consulting, that sort of thing. He’s been hired by the ministry to serve as security advisor. They want him to find whoever sent this package, and they are giving him free rein to do so. You might remember him from that time you snapped pictures on the
Including the centerfold, the article was six pages long. The italicized headline on the first page of the feature was nearly identical to the one on the cover: “ Who Will Adopt Us?”
An explanatory caption accompanied every single photo in the spread. Under the image of a sad, crying child: Per (in checkered overalls) is a willful little man of 17 months.
Under the image of a chubby, melancholy girl sitting on a polar bear rug: What do you think of Dorthe in her pretty white blouse?
The next showed a cheerless girl in a floral dress: Lise looks quite down. She is only 18 months and cross-eyed, but that can be fixed .
The largest photo showed a dark-haired boy in a white bed. Behind him the wallpaper was decorated with odd little round elephants drawn in a childlike fashion. The graininess of the spread made it hard to decipher the elephants’ curved tusks and tails, and their raised trunks.
Under this photo was the caption: One elephant marched along … but where is it going? When you’re only 9 days old, you don’t know much about the future .
“This is the original article—the mother article if you will—of the excerpt that was included in the anonymous package,” Knud said, though it was obvious to Nils.
“It’s from the same year as the form,” he continued. “Whoever sent it to us has this magazine—and something he wants to share—and he’s telling us where to start looking. At the Kongslund orphanage. In 1961.”
Again he slumped onto the battered wastebasket.
“That’s the year I was born.” It was the first time Nils had spoken.
“Yeah—me too. In fact, it was one of the biggest baby-boom years in Danish history.”
Knud closed the magazine and tossed it aside. “Next week the orphanage will celebrate the retired matron’s anniversary—the famous Ms. Ladegaard, who back in the day was simply called Magna—and on that occasion, they’ll bring all the old experts on early childhood education to Skodsborg. Plenty of politicians and famous people will be there, as you might expect given all the talk lately about childrearing, stress, and institutionalization.”
The two men headed outside through the empty editorial office and climbed into Nils’s beige Mercedes.
“In 1989, Magna was succeeded by an equally formidable woman,” Knud said. “Susanne Ingemann.”
Nils silently noted the journalist’s strange tone of voice as they drove along the harbor toward Kongens Nytorv.
“While everyone else was celebrating Liberation Day last night, a crisis meeting was held at the Ministry of National Affairs,” Knud said after a long pause. “I know this from my source in the ministry. Do you know why?”
As usual, Nils said nothing—there was no reason to—the reporter would answer his own question as he always did.
“Because of the anonymous letter that Orla Berntsen received. My source wasn’t at the meeting, but they discussed the mysterious letter for at least an hour—and then decided to seek the assistance of an expert … a former assistant chief of police in Copenhagen.”
Nils sped up through the soft curve near Sølyst and Emiliekilde. It was a gray but mild spring day. The morning’s first sailboats were already making their way across Øresund, dozens of them.
“He’s one of the minister’s old acquaintances, and he runs his own company, does security consulting, that sort of thing. He’s been hired by the ministry to serve as security advisor. They want him to find whoever sent this package, and they are giving him free rein to do so. You might remember him from that time you snapped pictures on the
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