sense. I lay it back on the mantel. “My grandpa had one just like it.”
“Boy,” he says, “you don’t look well.”
“Just a headache,” I say.
He softens. “My father carried that pistol in the Civil War, and I carried it when I was a Valpo detective during the Second World War. It’s the only belonging of his that I have left.” He pauses, I think deciding how to deal with me. “Let’s sit down,” he says.
We take easy chairs on opposite sides of the coffee table. He raises his voice. “Ritva, we have a guest. Make coffee.”
A voice calls back from upstairs. “Make it yourself!”
He laughs. “I’ll make it in a minute,” he says to me. “You were saying about the interior minister.”
He sits with his back straight, at a sort of relaxed attention. Ukki did that, too. Must be a generational thing. “This is a simple formality,” I say.
Matter-of-fact, I explain the accusations leveled against him and give him the background: about Tervomaa’s book, Valpo collaboration with Einsatzkommando Finnland in Stalag 309, about the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s request for investigation, about Germany’s request for extradition. “They want to charge you with accessory to murder,” I say.
I see anger well up in him. “Boy, who the fuck do you think you are to come here and talk to me like this? Accessory to murder my fucking ass. How many girls have you kissed?”
Off the top of my head, I don’t know. “What difference does it make?”
“Because if you take that number and multiply it by a hundred, that’s about the number of goddamned Communist Bolshevik Russian fucking bastards I’ve killed. And I wish I killed a hundred times more than that. You fucking pissant, you go back to the interior minister, that fucking cocksucker, and tell him to take his charges and accusations and stick them up his fucking ass.”
I realize I won’t get the opportunity to ask him about Ukki. Arvid leans forward in his chair and stares at me. I take in his starched white dress shirt, his tailored pants. Ukki dressed well every day, too. At home, I wear sweatpants and T-shirts. Arvid is a man with a great deal of pride. He has earned and demands respect.
The migraine thunders. My vision blurs.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“My head is killing me,” I say.
I stand and the world sways under me. I feel myself falling and realize I’m blacking out.
I start to regain consciousness. I’m fuzzy and confused. I look up at Arvid. “Ukki?”
Arvid slaps my face to focus me. I shake my head to clear it. He slaps me again. He packs a wallop for an old man. “You can stop now,” I say and sit up. “What happened?”
He hands me a glass. “Apparently, your headache made you pass out. Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“An opiated painkiller dissolved in water.”
I drink it down. “Thank you.”
He helps me to my feet and back into the armchair. He goes to his bookcase bar, comes back with a half balloon of cognac and hands it to me. “You need this,” he says.
I shake my head. “The painkiller was dope. I shouldn’t mix it with alcohol.”
“I’m ninety fucking years old. Don’t lecture me about health practices. Just drink it.”
I set it on the coffee table.
He sighs. To him, I’m a hopeless child. “You’re not going anywhere for a while. You’re going to stay here and eat lunch with us. When you feel better, you can leave.”
He’s ordering, not asking. I take a drink. The rush of opiates and booze is immediate. It helps.
A woman walks in from the kitchen. “I’m Ritva,” she says. “I suffer the misfortune of being Arvid’s wife. While you were passed out, I told him to stop being mean to you.”
She’s tiny and frail, maybe fifteen years younger than Arvid. Her face is kind, her long gray hair pulled back and rolled into a bun. Arvid’s smile exudes love for her.
“What happened to you?” Ritva asked.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I had a bad headache
“Boy,” he says, “you don’t look well.”
“Just a headache,” I say.
He softens. “My father carried that pistol in the Civil War, and I carried it when I was a Valpo detective during the Second World War. It’s the only belonging of his that I have left.” He pauses, I think deciding how to deal with me. “Let’s sit down,” he says.
We take easy chairs on opposite sides of the coffee table. He raises his voice. “Ritva, we have a guest. Make coffee.”
A voice calls back from upstairs. “Make it yourself!”
He laughs. “I’ll make it in a minute,” he says to me. “You were saying about the interior minister.”
He sits with his back straight, at a sort of relaxed attention. Ukki did that, too. Must be a generational thing. “This is a simple formality,” I say.
Matter-of-fact, I explain the accusations leveled against him and give him the background: about Tervomaa’s book, Valpo collaboration with Einsatzkommando Finnland in Stalag 309, about the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s request for investigation, about Germany’s request for extradition. “They want to charge you with accessory to murder,” I say.
I see anger well up in him. “Boy, who the fuck do you think you are to come here and talk to me like this? Accessory to murder my fucking ass. How many girls have you kissed?”
Off the top of my head, I don’t know. “What difference does it make?”
“Because if you take that number and multiply it by a hundred, that’s about the number of goddamned Communist Bolshevik Russian fucking bastards I’ve killed. And I wish I killed a hundred times more than that. You fucking pissant, you go back to the interior minister, that fucking cocksucker, and tell him to take his charges and accusations and stick them up his fucking ass.”
I realize I won’t get the opportunity to ask him about Ukki. Arvid leans forward in his chair and stares at me. I take in his starched white dress shirt, his tailored pants. Ukki dressed well every day, too. At home, I wear sweatpants and T-shirts. Arvid is a man with a great deal of pride. He has earned and demands respect.
The migraine thunders. My vision blurs.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“My head is killing me,” I say.
I stand and the world sways under me. I feel myself falling and realize I’m blacking out.
I start to regain consciousness. I’m fuzzy and confused. I look up at Arvid. “Ukki?”
Arvid slaps my face to focus me. I shake my head to clear it. He slaps me again. He packs a wallop for an old man. “You can stop now,” I say and sit up. “What happened?”
He hands me a glass. “Apparently, your headache made you pass out. Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“An opiated painkiller dissolved in water.”
I drink it down. “Thank you.”
He helps me to my feet and back into the armchair. He goes to his bookcase bar, comes back with a half balloon of cognac and hands it to me. “You need this,” he says.
I shake my head. “The painkiller was dope. I shouldn’t mix it with alcohol.”
“I’m ninety fucking years old. Don’t lecture me about health practices. Just drink it.”
I set it on the coffee table.
He sighs. To him, I’m a hopeless child. “You’re not going anywhere for a while. You’re going to stay here and eat lunch with us. When you feel better, you can leave.”
He’s ordering, not asking. I take a drink. The rush of opiates and booze is immediate. It helps.
A woman walks in from the kitchen. “I’m Ritva,” she says. “I suffer the misfortune of being Arvid’s wife. While you were passed out, I told him to stop being mean to you.”
She’s tiny and frail, maybe fifteen years younger than Arvid. Her face is kind, her long gray hair pulled back and rolled into a bun. Arvid’s smile exudes love for her.
“What happened to you?” Ritva asked.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I had a bad headache
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