Authors: Erik Valeur
“Actually, we do
…
” Knud began. When he couldn’t come up with a good excuse to boot a stranger out of someone else’s home—which he himself was a guest in—he fell silent.
“Consider it a press conference,” the man said. “An official one. You are here on business, right?”
“There’s usually more than one reporter at a press conference,” Knud replied, regaining his voice, but still struggling to take command of the situation.
“Then consider me a communications representative
…
for both the ministry and Kongslund, which, as you know, is funded by the national budget and therefore receives very exclusive support from the ministry. As a matter of fact, it has been my job for many years to protect Kongslund’s reputation.” Carl Malle allowed a little smile. “Few people know that, but Susanne can confirm it
…
if it matters. But the infamous Knud Taasing isn’t exactly known for checking the details, is he?”
The insult was a subtle reference to the misfortune that had nearly ended the reporter’s career seven years earlier. It was elegant and cruel, and it hit its mark.
“That’s what I thought
…
I don’t suppose you reminded Susanne of that affair when you scheduled your visit here yesterday.” The security advisor nudged the teapot aside and set a newspaper clipping in front of them. It was a letter to the editor, divided into three columns, from one of the big morning dailies; the date had been inked on the paper in thick red pen under the dramatic headline: “When The Media Destroys People.”
Nils didn’t recognize the article, but Knud looked like a man staring at a noose.
It was from May 2001, and one particular passage was printed in bold type:
“Six women were raped, and now the Palestinian man
who’d
been convicted of the crimes has been acquitted. But what if, despite the fact that skilled (male) reporters have raised questions about the technical evidence, he is guilty after all? What if, despite the fact that the skilled (male) judges of the appeals court acquitted him, he is guilty after all? And what if, despite the support of all these skilled (male) media people, he lied after all?”
Susanne Ingemann’s name appeared right below the headline, in italics. She sat silently for a moment, as though relishing the time
she’d
attacked Knud Taasing directly—and had been proven eerily correct. Without looking at the large man sitting next to her, she said, “What does an old newspaper clipping have to do with all this?”
Carl Malle shrugged. More was needed to throw him off balance. “Nothing besides the fact that the reporter you once so accurately skewered
…
” he spoke slowly, almost lovingly, “is the man sitting across from you. And he has hardly come to preserve the reputation of Kongslund. Or to do any good for any of us.”
Closing his eyes, Nils felt an even stronger sense of unease than when he’d seen the figure in the driveway. The letter to the editor had been published three days after the Special Court of Appeals had acquitted the Palestinian. Soon after his acquittal, the disaster occurred that swept the successful reporter off his feet, along with all the editors wh
o
’
d assisted him.
He’d
freed a guilty man—a “poor Palestinian” all the bleeding hearts had believed was innocent. Not three months later, that “innocent” foreigner kidnapped two boys from a playground in Herlev, shot them at a rest area in North Zealand, and then killed himself. In his suicide note, he confessed to the rapes
he’d
been acquitted of and mocked the man
who’d
won him his freedom, a man who had no idea that the very deeds we consider our most altruistic can feed hatred.
“But that’s not what we’re discussing today,” Knud said softly, his gaze fastened on the clipping. More than anything, this feeble response revealed how shaken he was.
The security advisor didn’t respond.
“Yes. She was right,” Knud said. “You were all right. The police were right. But I couldn’t have done it differently
…
” His words came out thickly, as though he would have preferred to not articulate them. Then, like the matron, he fell silent.
After nearly a full minute of awkward silence, Susanne Ingemann leaned forward, returning to the present. “You were talking about the infant room,” she said. Nils couldn’t decode the expression in her green eyes, but they contained no anger.
“Yes
…
that’s what it was called back then, right?” Knud’s question sounded both surprised and naive.
“Yes, that’s what it was called. Still is by those of us who remember those days.”
A bizarre thing to say
, Nils thought, registering the peculiarity of her tone. He could see a faint shimmer behind Knud’s eyeglasses.
In spite of Carl Malle’s malicious attempts at interrupting the conversation, the charge of the anonymous letter sender had been weighed, discreetly and elegantly, against the phrase
the infant room
—and no longer stuck.
“Of course we still say the infant room, but among us the room has never been referred to as anything but
…
”—and here Susanne Ingemann smiled, looking directly at Knud—“the Elephant Room.”
Nils’s camera slipped through his fingers and crashed to the floor. The image had come to him at once. The plump little pachyderms on the wall behind the child in the old magazine photo, and the evocative words that flickered through the caption:
One elephant marched along
…
Knud ignored Nils’s response and leaned forward to clutch at this piece of information, his face revealing a certain involuntary astonishment. “But why do you call it that
…
the Elephant Room?”
“Because one of the governesses painted small figures on all the walls,” Susanne Ingemann said, staring at Knud, oblivious to Nils’s and Carl Malle’s presence. “When Magna was matron, her right hand, Gerda—who is also retired now—decorated the walls from floor to ceiling with small blue elephants. It’s actually quite a marvelous sight. They are still there, everywhere. There’s another room with yellow giraffes and an even larger room with miniature gray hedgehogs. The one with giraffes is called the Giraffe Room; the one with hedgehogs is, of course, the Hedgehog Room. That’s all there is to it. The older children live in these other rooms.”
Knud abruptly switched topics. “I’ve had some time to do a little research
…
very little admittedly.” He peered over the rim of his glasses, “But through the nurses’ union, I located a former midwife at Rigshospital. During the period we’re discussing, the fifties and sixties, she was a student on Obstetric Ward B.” Knud studied a sheet of paper he had snatched from his folder. “Carla was her name.”
Susanne Ingemann said nothing. The name of the reporter’s primary source didn’t seem to faze her.
Knud glanced at his paper once more. “She recalls a girl who was, at most, sixteen or seventeen. This girl gave birth to a baby. But, according to the midwife, she was in such anguish at having to relinquish the child, it was as though
she’d
been condemned to the fires of hell by the Devil himself. She believes it was in April or May of 1961. The girl never saw her baby before she was discharged, before she disappeared—and it was the matron herself who picked the child up.”
“That was lucky. Kongslund was the best orphanage in the kingdom. Other children were sent to far inferior places, like Sølund or Ellinge Lyng, where they were left alone without any contact with adults.”
“Yes, so I have heard.” Again Knud studied the director over the rim of his glasses, and then he flipped the paper on the table. The balance in the room had shifted in his favor. Carl Malle leaned across the table, trying to read Knud’s notes. Susanne Ingemann’s hands rested in her lap. Light from the sky above Øresund formed a reddish aureole around her hair.
“There were quite a few rumors back then,” Knud continued in a lower voice. “Unconfirmed, but still. Rumors suggesting that the matron of Kongslund, in very special cases and under great discretion, helped certain men—fathers-to-be that is—out of their trouble. Out of very embarrassing situations.”
Susanne Ingemann’s silence, to Nils Jensen, seemed to signal a wait-and-see approach.
Knud coughed, and this time it sounded feigned. He continued, “Legal abortions were not an option back then, and while the sexual revolution was a few years away, sexual appetites were the same
…
” He smiled faintly. “And from time to time someone famous or powerful, a politician or a CEO or an actor, strayed from home and fathered a so-called illegitimate child. As a result of an extramarital affair, I mean.”
“A child born out of wedlock, yes.” Susanne Ingemann’s voice was as neutral as Knud’s.
“And every now and then, for various reasons—maybe because people couldn’t or wouldn’t visit some quack doctor—these unwanted children were born.”
“That’s right. Abortion was then called ‘illegal termination of pregnancy.’ ”
“These pregnancies presented an extremely embarrassing problem, perhaps especially for the rich and famous, who couldn’t risk exposure. My sources tell me
…
”
Nils noted how one source had become multiple sources.
“That Kongslund often entered the picture. In extraordinary cases, and in all discretion, the orphanage could arrange for an off-the-record birth, and to conveniently find a new home for the embarrassing love child.” He lowered his voice. “And then forget everything about the matter.”
Susanne Ingemann didn’t respond.
“The matron—and that must have been Magna—simply deleted every trace.”
Her green eyes studied him.
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
No reaction.
“She must have held some kind of power.” His voice was more muted now, almost nasal. Knud slumped in his tattered sweater.
“Yes,” said Susanne Ingemann. “If it were true.”
“Indeed. But that’s what the sources say—not to mention the rumors many recall, even all these years later.”
“The sources of these rumors—which are probably just that—are from a distant past.”
Absentmindedly, Knud scooped up the last cookie from the plate. “But could Kongslund have been able to command the most expensive piece of shorefront in Denmark without enormous goodwill from the highest places?”
He put the cookie back. “Isn’t that how it worked? A house full of
bastards
in the midst of the wealthiest and the finest dignitaries? This area was built by kings and admired throughout the gilded age. Kongslund couldn’t have been popular. Until they realized a deal could be struck. The rich and the powerful got something in return. Isn’t that right?”
Susanne Ingemann leaned back and closed her eyes, disregarding the provocation.
“We’re in possession of a letter that was sent to the Ministry of National Affairs yesterday, a letter that more than suggests that Kongslund is responsible for hiding certain children. Here, for example
…
” Knud handed the two sheets of paper to Susanne Ingemann, along with the magazine article and the adoption form. Nils thought she seemed slightly uneasy, but he couldn’t tell for sure.
She studied the papers without raising her eyes. Malle leaned over her left shoulder.
“Who is John Bjergstrand?” asked Knud.
No reaction. He repeated the question.
“John Bjergstrand. I really have no idea. Who is he?”
“I think he was an orphan here, in the infant room,” Knud said, hesitantly. Her response seemed genuine.
“Well, in that case it was long before my time, and I’ve never heard the name before.” She smiled and for a moment looked almost cheerful, in spite of the serious allegations Knud had leveled against Kongslund. Then she said, “Are you sure your
source
isn’t mistaken? Perhaps he or she is confusing Kongslund with another orphanage. After all, there were more than fifty in Denmark at the time.” She smiled again. “Denmark was filled with homes that were in turn filled with abandoned children. The little one you mentioned, he could have been anywhere.”
“The letter was sent to the chief of staff at the ministry, Orla Pil Berntsen. What is his connection to Kongslund?”
“There’s no connection.”
Her response came a little too rapidly
, Nils thought.
“We believe he was a child here.” Knud was exaggerating again, presenting his own theory as though he had corroborators.
“Orla Berntsen’s private life is nobody’s business but his own,” she replied, enunciating the official’s name in a way that left no doubt: she knew him, and he was connected to Kongslund.
“What I’m asking about must be available to the public, given that Kongslund is run with public funds and has been supported by the state—as Malle himself pointed out earlier.” His last point carried a vicious undertone, Nils observed.
“In that case, I think you should ask him yourself,” she said—again a tad too quickly—and then shrugged. “Besides,
we’d
like to continue to receive support from the ministry. If you know what I mean.” She glanced at Carl Malle, and again Nils noted an air of hostility between them.
“Is the ministry putting pressure on you? Why was he even invited to this conversation?”
Susanne Ingemann stood and then walked a few paces to the window. For nearly a full minute, she stared at the blue waters of Øresund, keeping her back to the three men. Finally she turned and said without hesitation, “Yes, Orla Berntsen was here as an infant.” She shrugged as if to minimize the importance of this piece of information. “But that, of course, is confidential. He wasn’t put up for adoption, but he was here for a short time because his mother was going through a difficult period. Mother’s Aid Society helped her. Later on, he visited the governesses at least once a year—with his mother—and that is the only reason I know about it. The ministry also knows. We’re included in the national budget. The ministry supports us, and the minister is a board member. There’s nothing covert about it. And none of this has anything to do with him.”