Punishment aka What Is Mine

Alvhild Sofienberg looked as if she was about to fall asleep. Johanne went over to close the window.

“I was thinking about going to see him,” she said lightly.

“Do you think he’d like that? Do you think he’d welcome a visitor? A complete stranger, an academic from the old country?”

“Difficult to say. But it is an interesting case. In terms of my project, it is the clearest, most… To get Aksel Seier to talk would be so important for my research.”

“I see,” said the old lady. “I don’t quite… quite understand what it is exactly you are doing. With your research.”

When Johanne was first contacted by Alvhild Sofienberg through a colleague who knew Alvhild’s daughter personally, she had gotten the impression that the old lady only had a superficial knowledge of what she was doing. Alvhild had never asked, had never shown any interest in the project. She was living on borrowed time and had used her failing energy to get Johanne interested in her case, the story of Aksel Seier. Everything else was superfluous. She would soon be seventy and did not want to waste time showing false interest in other people’s work.

There was fresh color in her cheeks; she didn’t look ill at all and certainly not tired. Johanne pulled her chair closer.

“My starting point is ten murder cases from the period 1950 to 1960,” she said, stirring the thin coffee for no reason. “All the defendants claimed they were innocent. None of them changed their plea while serving their sentences. As far as they were concerned, they were innocent. My aim is not to find out whether they were telling the truth or not, but rather to compare and contrast the fate of these people while they were serving their sentences and in relation to any appeals, retrials, and subsequent releases. In brief, my aim is to establish the extent to which external interest is important to how the legal system deals with such cases. As you know, Fredrik Fasting Torgersen, for example, was…”

Johanne smiled bashfully. Alvhild Sofienberg was an adult when the Torgersen case was heard. Johanne was not even born.

“Sentenced to life for the murder of a young woman. He has persistently pleaded innocent for over forty years. To this day, other people, who initially at least were complete strangers to him, have continued to fight tirelessly for him. Jens Bjorneboe, for example, and…”

Again she blushed and held back.

“But of course, you know all of this,” she said quietly.

Alvhild nodded and smiled. She said nothing.

“I guess I want to try to say something about two things,” continued Johanne. “First, do cases that get a lot of attention have any particular common features? Are they particularly weak, in terms of proof? Or is it the defendant’s-subsequently the convict’s-personality that make the case more interesting to others? What sort of role does media coverage play in terms of the investigation and legal proceedings? In other words, is it purely arbitrary whether a case falls from public view the moment the judgement is made or if it continues to attract interest, year after year?”

She noticed that she had raised her voice.

“Then,” she continued, in a quieter voice, “I want to look at the consequences of a case being kept alive in the public interest. To be cynical and in purely legal terms, Torgersen, for example, has hardly reaped much benefit from all the support he has had. Of course, I understand…”

Johanne noticed the intense interest in Alvhild’s face. It was as if the old woman had galvanized all her energy; her back was straight as a courtier’s, and she barely blinked. Johanne went on:

“Of course, I understand that on a personal, human level, it must be of great importance to know that someone out there actually believes you…”

“At least, if you are innocent,” Alvhild interrupted. “But we don’t know that in Torgersen’s case.”

“Of course; that’s a valid point. In general, I mean. But not in terms of my research. I have to look at the actual consequences of external interest.”

“Fantastic,” said Alvhild to no one in particular. Johanne was not entirely sure what she was referring to.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” she said thoughtfully, to fill the silence. “I mean, isn’t it peculiar that the Aksel Seier case just died once he’d been sentenced, when several papers were extremely critical of the legal proceedings? Why did they just drop the case? Was it something to do with the man himself? Was there something disagreeable about his personality? Did he refuse to cooperate with journalists who meant him well? Is Aksel Seier really just… a bastard who no one really cared about in the end? I would get a lot out of talking to the man.”

The door opened, quietly.

“Is everything alright?” asked the nurse and continued without waiting for a reply. “You’ve been sitting in that chair for too long now, Mrs. Sofienberg. It’s time for you to lie down again. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask your friend to…”

“I can do that myself, thank you.”

Alvhild pursed her lips again and lifted her hand to stop the white-clad woman.

“Wouldn’t it be wise to write to him first?”

Johanne Vik got up and popped the unused notebook back into her handbag.

“In some situations I choose not to write letters,” she said slowly, putting her bag on her shoulder.

“And those are?”

The nurse had opened the bed covers and was about to roll the monstrous metal construction out onto the floor.

“When I’m afraid of not getting a reply,” said Johanne. “No reply is an answer in itself. Nothing means ‘no.’ I don’t dare risk that. Not from Aksel Seier. I’m flying out on Monday. I…”

The nurse caught her eye.

“Yes, yes,” mumbled Johanne. “I’ll leave now. Maybe I’ll call you, Alvhild. From America. If I have anything to tell, that is. I hope that everything is fine… well, as good as it can be in the meantime.”

Without thinking, she bent over the old lady and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Her skin felt dry and cold. Once she was well out of the house, she used her tongue to moisten her lips again. They tasted of nothing; just dry.

FOURTEEN

Emilie had been given a present. A Barbie doll with hair that was curled up inside her head so you could pull it out and then wind it back in with a key on her neck. The doll had nice clothes, a pink sequined dress that came in the same box as the doll and a set of cowboy clothes as an extra present. Emilie played with the cowboy hat. Barbie was lying on the bed beside her with her legs splayed. She didn’t have a Barbie doll at home. Mommy didn’t like toys like that. Nor did Daddy, and in any case, Emilie was too big for things like that now. At least, that’s what Auntie Beate said.

Auntie Beate was probably angry with Daddy now. She probably thought it was his fault that Emilie had disappeared, even though she was only walking home from school, like she had so many times before without anyone coming and stealing her away. Daddy couldn’t keep an eye on her all the time. Even Auntie Beate had said that.

“Daddy…”

“I can be your daddy.”

The man was standing in the doorway. He must be crazy. Emilie knew a lot about crazy people. Torill down the road in Number 14 was so crazy that she had to go to the hospital all the time. Her children had to live with their grandparents because their mom sometimes thought she was a cannibal. And then she would light a bonfire in the garden and want to roast Guttorm and Gustav on spits. Once Torill rang the bell in the middle of the night; Emilie woke up and followed Daddy down to see who it was. Guttorm and Gustav’s mother was standing there stark naked, with red stripes all over her body, and wanted to borrow the freezer. Emilie was hurried off to bed