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Authors: Erik Valeur
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barricades in Nørrebro. His name is Carl Malle. He’s become a big dog since leaving the force, someone you only hire when the shit’s burning so close to you that your ass is on fire.”
Nils made no comment on this peculiar analogy.
“And it’s a very fitting name, Malle,” said Knud, who still smelled like oil. “He’s malevolent as all hell. But of course, it’s terrible timing for them. In a week everyone who knows what’s what will be at Kongslund to honor the famous matron. In addition, the minister of national affairs, who has been the spiritual and material protector of the orphanage, is about to make the biggest leap in his career—to the nation’s highest office. Ever since the Great War, the party has supported and financed Kongslund, deemed it the shining example of the Danes’ compassionate attitude toward the weakest members of society, and party bosses will resist any attempt to shatter this piece of Danish history. Naturally, they can’t stand an article surfacing all these years later that suggests that Kongslund’s past—and therefore also its present—is in any way unseemly; that the orphanage, in return for the party’s support, helped powerful citizens avoid scandals and erased the identities of its little charges so completely that they could never be reconstructed.”
The blue envelope that was the root of Knud’s confidence rested in his lap; it represented, possibly, Independent Weekend ’s final chance to secure a prize-winning story. At a crisis meeting held just a month earlier, the marketing team had informed the last band of reporters that only 7 percent of the country was even aware of their newspaper’s existence, and that only a sensational scoop could save the paper from the disease that was slowly but surely killing it.
Nils cast a sidelong glance at the neatly cut red, white, and black letters on the envelope, before turning his gaze toward Sweden. The water in Øresund was steel gray, and he briefly recalled his father, who during school holidays had brought him along on his rounds as a night watchman in Nørrebro—perhaps in the hope that he would end up in the same occupation.
They passed Bellevue, with its white sand and small tufts of grass, Copenhageners’ preferred beach for more than 150 years. “The name itself … John Bjergstrand,” Knud said, breaking the silence. “That, of course, is the key piece of information. A boy born in all discretion and adopted out in secrecy—with a new name that we don’t know. A bastard child who could completely destroy an otherwise glorious career. And that’s exactly what happened, I think … a very powerful person had an extramarital affair, but he pulled some strings and covered up every trace of his exploits.”
With satisfaction he leaned back in his seat. “Except for one. Which our letter sender found,” he said, before adding, “Our anonymous sender doesn’t know the parents’ identities. But he thinks we’ll be able to find out who they are and believes Independent Weekend has the guts to go public with the story.”
Nils remained silent as they passed Strandmølle Inn and the Jægersborg forest.
“We know it made Berntsen nervous, and we know he’s aware of the orphanage. And we know that a silly little piece of paper startled the entire Ministry of National Affairs to the point where it held crisis meetings rather than attending the administration’s Liberation Day celebration.”
The one meeting, Nils noted, had now grown to many.
“I think the party is involved in some way or another, and the letter writer knows it. In the fifties and sixties tens of thousands of illegitimate children were given up for adoption. That figure didn’t drop until abortion was legalized in 1973.” He clucked his tongue at the unfortunate if necessary national triumph.
“Yesterday I spoke with a retired social worker from Mother’s Aid Society. She visited Kongslund frequently back in the day. She told
Nils made no comment on this peculiar analogy.
“And it’s a very fitting name, Malle,” said Knud, who still smelled like oil. “He’s malevolent as all hell. But of course, it’s terrible timing for them. In a week everyone who knows what’s what will be at Kongslund to honor the famous matron. In addition, the minister of national affairs, who has been the spiritual and material protector of the orphanage, is about to make the biggest leap in his career—to the nation’s highest office. Ever since the Great War, the party has supported and financed Kongslund, deemed it the shining example of the Danes’ compassionate attitude toward the weakest members of society, and party bosses will resist any attempt to shatter this piece of Danish history. Naturally, they can’t stand an article surfacing all these years later that suggests that Kongslund’s past—and therefore also its present—is in any way unseemly; that the orphanage, in return for the party’s support, helped powerful citizens avoid scandals and erased the identities of its little charges so completely that they could never be reconstructed.”
The blue envelope that was the root of Knud’s confidence rested in his lap; it represented, possibly, Independent Weekend ’s final chance to secure a prize-winning story. At a crisis meeting held just a month earlier, the marketing team had informed the last band of reporters that only 7 percent of the country was even aware of their newspaper’s existence, and that only a sensational scoop could save the paper from the disease that was slowly but surely killing it.
Nils cast a sidelong glance at the neatly cut red, white, and black letters on the envelope, before turning his gaze toward Sweden. The water in Øresund was steel gray, and he briefly recalled his father, who during school holidays had brought him along on his rounds as a night watchman in Nørrebro—perhaps in the hope that he would end up in the same occupation.
They passed Bellevue, with its white sand and small tufts of grass, Copenhageners’ preferred beach for more than 150 years. “The name itself … John Bjergstrand,” Knud said, breaking the silence. “That, of course, is the key piece of information. A boy born in all discretion and adopted out in secrecy—with a new name that we don’t know. A bastard child who could completely destroy an otherwise glorious career. And that’s exactly what happened, I think … a very powerful person had an extramarital affair, but he pulled some strings and covered up every trace of his exploits.”
With satisfaction he leaned back in his seat. “Except for one. Which our letter sender found,” he said, before adding, “Our anonymous sender doesn’t know the parents’ identities. But he thinks we’ll be able to find out who they are and believes Independent Weekend has the guts to go public with the story.”
Nils remained silent as they passed Strandmølle Inn and the Jægersborg forest.
“We know it made Berntsen nervous, and we know he’s aware of the orphanage. And we know that a silly little piece of paper startled the entire Ministry of National Affairs to the point where it held crisis meetings rather than attending the administration’s Liberation Day celebration.”
The one meeting, Nils noted, had now grown to many.
“I think the party is involved in some way or another, and the letter writer knows it. In the fifties and sixties tens of thousands of illegitimate children were given up for adoption. That figure didn’t drop until abortion was legalized in 1973.” He clucked his tongue at the unfortunate if necessary national triumph.
“Yesterday I spoke with a retired social worker from Mother’s Aid Society. She visited Kongslund frequently back in the day. She told
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