If Lena had known that she would be supposed to go through the woods of Swedish God-forsaken middle of nowhere, with all the equipment she could find with the help of Robert (including a digital compass, a backpack full of food and water, a torch, a sleeping bag, and a folded tent), with training boots on her feet and an anorak on her body, shielding her from the cold of the dark, she would have started preparing earlier and worked on her physical fitness.
It was bizarre to switch from the safe environment of school to a hazardous flora and fauna of Swedish forest where heading into a moose or a bear was far more probable than meeting a human. Robert contacted her every couple of hours, but occasionally she lost reception in her phone and she was sure that this contact would be worthless if she was attacked by a wolf and killed within a couple of seconds to posthumously receive a message from Warsaw:
‘RU OK?’
To which she wouldn’t be able to reply. Maybe that was her destiny, to get lost in the middle of nowhere, having sinned enough in her life, and deal with the punishment provided by her fate. She was glad that she didn’t own anything of value and her room could be easily taken by Anton, Rebeka’s look-alike or even Kit-Kat.
Looking back, she wasn’t sure how she was able to reach her destination point. It took her over a day of walking from the most distant bus stop from the smallest town, which was blessed with a train connection. It was literally the middle of nowhere and in the middle of the night, she reached the house, which she hoped was the X drawn on the map. It was a small wooden hut, the door wasn’t locked, getting inside was as easy as taking candy from a baby. It was equipped with basic utilities. The shelves were full of dry food, tins of fish and cans and bottles of drink. There were some beds by the walls, cupboards filled with towels, a table and two chairs, nothing fancy, just basic necessities of everyday life. Lena took off her backpack and sat on the bed. Her sore feet dangling over the floor, a torn packet of biscuits on her knees, she fell asleep.
She was woken up by steps, she opened her eyes to see a man. She was still there, in the hut, half-sitting on the bed, in the cloud of crushed biscuits around her, her feet numb from the weird position she took when all strength abandoned her.
‘You’re by far the oldest one I was privileged to welcome in my modest abode.’
Lena saw that the man had taken the wallet from her backpack and checked her ID.
‘I was sure that at your age, being independent is easier than when you’re adolescent. What brings you to me?’
Lena didn’t know where to start. The crazy thing was that she wasn’t scared, it was ridiculous: the man could easily kill her and simple ‘RU OK?’ wouldn’t save her for sure. Somehow though, she had a hunch that her fate wasn’t about to end in that hut. She took the pictures of the missing children and the map put together from the pages of Astrid Lindgren’s book and all this she spread in front of the man.
‘I need to know the truth.’
The man smiled. Now she was able to look at him more carefully. He was short and stout, he had light blond hair, which turned white over time. He sat comfortably, spreading his legs in high boots.
‘The truth. Lena, isn’t that so? There are always many truths. The truth is somewhere in between. I can tell you my version of the truth and you decide whether it is also your version, do we have a deal?’
Lena nodded obediently.
‘When I was a little boy my father hit me twice a week. One time, it was a routine beating to keep me disciplined. The other time, it was for something I did. Badly ironed shirt, unwashed dishes, a spot of dust on the floor. He did it to school me, to teach me a lesson. When he got really drunk, mind you, he was an alcoholic, he hit me more often than that. Sometimes I had wounds which healed for days and he didn’t allow doctors to contact me. My mother died of cancer when I was a little boy. When I think about it, I believe that he blamed me for her passing. He wanted to destroy me. Slowly but surely.’
‘Couldn’t you contact some social services? They take away the children from alcoholic parents, there are foster houses. I heard that Sweden has very strict rules when it comes to child violence. You cannot even spank a child. Something, which in Poland is considered an exaggeration.’
‘Now this is true. There are special phone numbers, you can even use them when your parents make you angry, which happens twice as often as the parents would like it to happen. You can make a victim of yourself and make a whole lot of trouble for everybody. But you see, there are always different truths. Two sides of the coin. My father was working for social services. According to him, I was a stubborn, disobedient boy. A poison, which killed his wife, and a brat that couldn’t be disciplined. Who would you believe: a respectable man, who dealt with abused children on an everyday basis, or a twelve-year-old boy, who had his fair share of mistreatment? The battle was lost for me. I was praying for the day I would be able to leave this house and him, and start some peaceful life on my own.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I was helped. Our neighbor was an old childless man. He owned a couple of farms, he sold milk, eggs, cheese, and farm equipment. He must have overheard my father’s outburst of anger, which through the thin walls and Swedish open space silence wasn’t that hard. One day, he came to me. Father was away, I was kicking the ball in the yard.
‘I want you to work for me,’ he said and invited me over to his farm. ‘I will pay you the money, which you will save. You cannot tell anything to your father or anyone at school, either friends or teachers. I want you to come to my place after school and stay here until your father comes home.’
I didn’t say anything about being beaten, but I was almost certain that he knew. I worked for him for a year. I helped with animals, I cleaned the pigsty, I took his produce to the market. It was good for me. It kept me grounded. He was paying me more than he was supposed to, as I later learned. He treated me like his employee, not as a child. By the end of the year, he said that I should pack my things, take all my money and rent something on the other side of the country. He handed me references and advised me to lie about my age. Sixteen sounded better than thirteen. I did what he told me to. And then it was all back to normal. I didn’t start taking drugs, I found a room, worked some odd jobs until I was mature. It was all pretty boring and normal. No one hit me, no one ever said one bad word to me or about me. Since then, I have never seen my father and I have never seen this man. But I was forever grateful and wanted to pay my debts.’
‘So you invented this Astrid Lindgren scheme?’
‘Well, you see, I never wanted to have children. My father spoilt me to the extent that I was afraid of what kind of father I would be for my child. But I was sure that there were some kids out there, trapped by their circumstances, who needed something more than a foster home, orphanage or social services. They needed freedom and some peace of mind. I came up with a web page, a yearly subscription of the children books. I spread some news, left some leaflets here and there, made sure that I would do more good than evil. I paid my debts. I helped a few.’
‘So all of them are still alive?’, Lena pointed at the pictures.
‘My girl, why shouldn’t they be? They had their reasons to come here. There are always two sides of the truth.’
