Chapter 19
A road of russet dirt sat slightly sunken among a peaceful part of the untamed Götaland plain, capriciously cutting up a shallow slope, after having deviated from the main thoroughfare, and terminating against a painted red blotch that sat atop the distant line of the horizon and blazed as a minute crimson fire against the overcast sky. From a somewhat closer view, the blotch became a traditional farmhouse, its planks smeared in rich Falun red and its trim an immaculate white. In its foreground, a vague patchwork of autumn colors began to materialize among the wild bristly grass and yellow-topped weeds on either side of the approaching road; they were the imprecise fields of barley, oak and wheat in full maturity and ready for the late harvest. From an even closer view, the house revealed itself to be something of a rural manor; it was roughly twice the size of a typical farmhouse yet still maintained the trappings of quaint agrarianism, as evidenced by its possession of nearly identical architecture to the later style. Behind it, a pair of metal silos rose from the reverse slope. In front of them, was a dense copse of very dark pines that ran along the crest, extending a few hundred meters from the manor house to a white fence which enclosed a vast pen of pigs. Presently, only a few of the animals could be seen from the approaching road. They were wallowing in a bed of dry dirt, and their cries echoed across the landscape reaching as far as the main road where a suited gentleman was turning toward the farm as an automobile raced off, sputtering noisily behind him.
Inside the great house, the imposing shape that was Mr. Axel Pehrrson-Bramstorp laid languidly on the antechamber sofa. His face was shielded with the morning’s paper and several crumbs of cheese were spread across his gently bobbing chest, as great snores repeatedly sounded as mild reports from his throat. The self imposed agricultural minister had spread the entirety of the first weekend since Per Albin’s announcement in a similar fashion, this in spite of the massive unrest that had gripped the nation as a result.
It was just past nine when his daughter, Teresia, walked into the room. She was a small, heavy-set young woman whose hazel eyes commonly glowed with certain compassionate thoughtfulness. Below a rough chestnut main, her face was a picture of innocent strength. She grabbed her father’s shoulders and softly shook the old man.
“Wha-what is it?”
“Father, you can’t just lay there all day. What will people think if they know that a government official is spending his days napping when the country is navigating such perilous straits?” she asked with a definite tinge of annoyance.
Bramstorp leaned forward with a drowsy smile.
“My dear, no one will ever have to know,” he said wryly. “Agriculture is my business anyway. I don’t have time to be concerned with these trivial matters. After all, what is of greater importance, the sugar crop or the potential global conflict? Come now, tell me. The answer's fairly obvious, I think.”
“Oh stop it!” Thersia cried merrily, though her words were meant. “Clean yourself up too, look you’re a mess. Mr. Sandler will be here any moment.”
“Sandler?!” Bramstorp cried.
Within a minute, there was a knock at the door. Bramstorp slowly lurched toward it and as he opened it, the cold exterior air rapidly swirled across the opened portal immediately chafing his hands, and he saw Rickard Sandler standing in the doorway, laden in full winter clothing. At first, the foreign minister’s eyes were fixed to some unknown object off to the side making his somber red-hued profile plainly visible to his host, if only temporarily. Behind him lay the descending dirt path which wound down through the crop covered slope. Finally, after a few moments, he turned to greet Bramstorp, offering a gloved hand and then tipping his hat to Teresia who suddenly joined her father at the door.
“Step inside Mr. Sandler. Get out of the cold.” called out Bramstorp as he strode inside the foyer following the initial exchange of formalities. “Close the door behind him Teresia and Mr. Sandler you can take a seat in the back parlor. Just follow me. Care for a cigar? A drink?”
“Um, no thank you sir,” Sandler replied as he crossed the threshold and began to follow Bramstorp and Teresia.
“Allow me to take your hat and coat Mr. Sandler,” Teresia said pleasantly.
“No thank you Mrs. Bengtsson. I find the air exceedingly cold and I do not plan to stay very long.”
The trio entered into the parlor, a room that was elegant in its rustic fashion, as the traditional festive songs of Sweden had become adopted, in some measure, within the classical sphere. Once they were seated, it became clear to Sandler’s companions that he was preoccupied or perhaps was struggling to order his thoughts for it was only after a long mutual pause that he finally started to voice his purpose
“Is your son-in-law Esben here?” he asked of Bramstorp who subsequently nodded in affirmation. “And your wife?”
“Yes. Do you want me to get them?”
“Please do sir. I wish to speak to you’re entire family.”
“Maids, butlers? Shall I fetch them also?” Bramstorp laughed.
“No,” Sandler responded grimly, apparently having little patience for humor.
The requested duo was eventually added among the group, forming a pentad within the parlor. Sandler took a seat and finally removed his hat, a black top hat around which was tied a bronze colored sash. Bramstorp subsequently noticed a slight graying of the roots about the left side of the foreign minister’s scalp.
“Now,” began Sandler. “you all know that the likelihood that we will become embroiled in war has increased exponentially because of the Prime Minister’s recent call to abdicate our stance of neutrality. I do not think this is debatable; we are closer to war than we have been for many decades and…it is partly the result of my actions, or rather my agreement with those present at the October seventh meeting.”
“My son-in-law and I were there, of course,” noted Bramstorp whose curiosity was quite piqued.
“Yes and we were all in agreement that neutrality should be abandoned, myself included, and that we should seek an alliance with the United Kingdom and France. However, I have come to deeply regret this decision. I want to be a peacemaker. I don’t want to be someone whose actions send my country, and perhaps the world, closer to war. Let me say however, that I hold no grudge against you gentlemen for making the decision that you did. How can I after all? I made the same one, though I do regret it.”
“What would you have Sweden do?” asked Bramstorp as he lay back on the sofa, his eyes riveted on Sandler, while he carelessly knocked burning embers from his cigar to the floor.
“Repair our relationship with Germany. There are those within the Reich who deeply want peace. I have met with them. Mr. Von Balfour himself is among them!”
“Well, I assure you we all want peace. That’s precisely why Hansson is pursuing an alliance; so that we might force Germany to abandon further expansionist aims out of fear for allied strength.”
“But that’s the problem. I don’t believe true peace can be born from threats and fear.”
“I certainly understand that position,” Bramstorp responded. “But, frankly, I imagine that a true and lasting peace is beyond the realm of this world. As for Von Balfour, if it is true that he wants peace than I am pleased and hopeful for such an end, but first he should tell his government to curtail its belligerence at the very least. Perhaps then he can begin to achieve his objective.”
“I agree,” replied Sandler as his eyes began to shoot uncomfortable glances wildly across the room. “I suppose complete and total peace is utterly elusive, impossible to fully achieve. It is a dream perhaps, but one which we should hope that all men aspire to.” He halted to discretely calm himself. Within moments he was as still as a Greek stoic. “I think that if we want peace than we should aim for that peace which is born solely from hope, charity and communication, the final being an essential aspect; the means contrary to threats and open war. I admit, that the German government may prove hardened and fixed in their precise objectives, whatever they may be. If that is the case, than we must defend ourselves but it has not come to that, not yet. There is still hope for peace even now, and I want our government to cooperate with the Von Balfour’s of Germany and Italy and Japan and exhaust all options before committing to an alliance. Do you forget the lesson of the Great War?”
“Again, I understand your thoughts, but where are you willing to draw the line? At what point should we become diplomatically aggressive in the face of Nazi belligerence?”
Sandler contemplated. His gaze swept across the room, quickly scanning the quartet of occupants, all staring at him. Esben Bengtsson’s lanky figure on the left was leaning against a bookcase of dark spruce. His hands were plunged into his pockets and Sandler thought he had the look of a university student despite the fact that he was training to become an army officer. Bramstorp sat straight ahead, his lively face hunched forward in anticipation. Teresia sat next to him. She gazed with a curious expression, dark and piercing, yet strangely comforting. Last was Mrs. Bramstorp on the right. She was elegantly dressed, bearing a casual pastel gown and adorned with a superfluity of jewelry. Her focus appeared quite divided and she regularly looked back toward the main hall.
“I don’t know,” Sandler finally answered. “I don’t know exactly how far we can still let Germany travel down her present path, but I know that, as of today, she has not gone so far that we must proceed on Hansson’s course.”
“Well, regardless of this discussion, it’s too late to alter things anyway. Per Albin’s announcement has set the wheels rolling on this thing and only a hostile parliament can stop it.”
“Alas, you are correct,” said Sandler as his head sunk and he clapped a hand to his brow.
The diplomat’s grief inspired an awkward lull that briefly ensnared his hosts. Finally young Mr. Bengtsson spoke.
“Mr. Sandler,” he said gently while strolling slowly forward. “I am sympathetic to your feelings. Although, I’ve joined the army, I am as wary as you are regarding war and conflict. I’ve only done so to protect my country and the people I care for.”
Sandler ordered himself once more.
“Oh, believe me, I understand. I have no quarrel with you for joining up. I know you don’t seek war. I know you want to defend this country and the people you love…a noble endeavor. Truly,” he continued with staunch tone and his voice rising to a low shout. “if war occurs I will be on the battle line with you Mr. Bengtsson!”
Bramstorp couldn’t help but let a laugh escape and the remainder of his family were smiling broadly.
“Oh Mr. Sandler! You are a patriot indeed!” he cried.
“I’m afraid I allowed myself to be carried away, but the substance of my words is true. But please understand that my beliefs are neither against the army nor Hansson for I understand that he seeks to do what is right. I even admire his steadfastness in the face of the massive protests that have nearly put him under siege within the capital. But, I disagree with him. I disagree with the Rickard Sandler of October Seventh.”
“We understand Mr. Sandler,” Mrs. Bramstorp said reassuredly.
“But you won’t change your minds about this?” Sandler asked to Mrs. Bramstorp more than anyone else.
“No, I’m afraid.”
“No, we won’t,” acknowledged Bramstorp himself. “But tell me, why have you come to see us? Why not take this up with Mr. Hansson or the king or someone superior to the minister of agriculture?”
“You are indeed superior to that post you hold Mr. Pehrrson-Bramstorp. You are a close associate of the prime minister as is your son-in-law. Thus, I confess, I hoped that I might influence you so that you two might in turn influence Per Albin. I had hoped that the ladies would be sympathetic to my position and therefore aid in my pursuit but I see I really cannot change your minds. Forgive me for this cloak-and-dagger operation. I shouldn’t have gone behind the prime minister’s back. I feel unworthy of the ideas I have just professed and the privilege of my position. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t dwell on it,” said Teresia.
“I won’t,” said Sandler as he stood up. “Thank you for you’re kindness everyone.”
“Will you leave so soon?” asked Teresia.
“Yes, my mission has failed," he said laughingly before becoming more serious. "I have other engagements but it’s been a pleasure to see you as well as your lovely farm. Though I dare say, the temperature seems quite cool. I fear it may endanger your bountiful yield.”
Moments later he disappeared out the front door and strode into the cold, stepping along the lonely road flanked by the tall cereal crops which led to a waiting auto, humming at the faraway base of the hill.
A road of russet dirt sat slightly sunken among a peaceful part of the untamed Götaland plain, capriciously cutting up a shallow slope, after having deviated from the main thoroughfare, and terminating against a painted red blotch that sat atop the distant line of the horizon and blazed as a minute crimson fire against the overcast sky. From a somewhat closer view, the blotch became a traditional farmhouse, its planks smeared in rich Falun red and its trim an immaculate white. In its foreground, a vague patchwork of autumn colors began to materialize among the wild bristly grass and yellow-topped weeds on either side of the approaching road; they were the imprecise fields of barley, oak and wheat in full maturity and ready for the late harvest. From an even closer view, the house revealed itself to be something of a rural manor; it was roughly twice the size of a typical farmhouse yet still maintained the trappings of quaint agrarianism, as evidenced by its possession of nearly identical architecture to the later style. Behind it, a pair of metal silos rose from the reverse slope. In front of them, was a dense copse of very dark pines that ran along the crest, extending a few hundred meters from the manor house to a white fence which enclosed a vast pen of pigs. Presently, only a few of the animals could be seen from the approaching road. They were wallowing in a bed of dry dirt, and their cries echoed across the landscape reaching as far as the main road where a suited gentleman was turning toward the farm as an automobile raced off, sputtering noisily behind him.
Inside the great house, the imposing shape that was Mr. Axel Pehrrson-Bramstorp laid languidly on the antechamber sofa. His face was shielded with the morning’s paper and several crumbs of cheese were spread across his gently bobbing chest, as great snores repeatedly sounded as mild reports from his throat. The self imposed agricultural minister had spread the entirety of the first weekend since Per Albin’s announcement in a similar fashion, this in spite of the massive unrest that had gripped the nation as a result.
It was just past nine when his daughter, Teresia, walked into the room. She was a small, heavy-set young woman whose hazel eyes commonly glowed with certain compassionate thoughtfulness. Below a rough chestnut main, her face was a picture of innocent strength. She grabbed her father’s shoulders and softly shook the old man.
“Wha-what is it?”
“Father, you can’t just lay there all day. What will people think if they know that a government official is spending his days napping when the country is navigating such perilous straits?” she asked with a definite tinge of annoyance.
Bramstorp leaned forward with a drowsy smile.
“My dear, no one will ever have to know,” he said wryly. “Agriculture is my business anyway. I don’t have time to be concerned with these trivial matters. After all, what is of greater importance, the sugar crop or the potential global conflict? Come now, tell me. The answer's fairly obvious, I think.”
“Oh stop it!” Thersia cried merrily, though her words were meant. “Clean yourself up too, look you’re a mess. Mr. Sandler will be here any moment.”
“Sandler?!” Bramstorp cried.
Within a minute, there was a knock at the door. Bramstorp slowly lurched toward it and as he opened it, the cold exterior air rapidly swirled across the opened portal immediately chafing his hands, and he saw Rickard Sandler standing in the doorway, laden in full winter clothing. At first, the foreign minister’s eyes were fixed to some unknown object off to the side making his somber red-hued profile plainly visible to his host, if only temporarily. Behind him lay the descending dirt path which wound down through the crop covered slope. Finally, after a few moments, he turned to greet Bramstorp, offering a gloved hand and then tipping his hat to Teresia who suddenly joined her father at the door.
“Step inside Mr. Sandler. Get out of the cold.” called out Bramstorp as he strode inside the foyer following the initial exchange of formalities. “Close the door behind him Teresia and Mr. Sandler you can take a seat in the back parlor. Just follow me. Care for a cigar? A drink?”
“Um, no thank you sir,” Sandler replied as he crossed the threshold and began to follow Bramstorp and Teresia.
“Allow me to take your hat and coat Mr. Sandler,” Teresia said pleasantly.
“No thank you Mrs. Bengtsson. I find the air exceedingly cold and I do not plan to stay very long.”
The trio entered into the parlor, a room that was elegant in its rustic fashion, as the traditional festive songs of Sweden had become adopted, in some measure, within the classical sphere. Once they were seated, it became clear to Sandler’s companions that he was preoccupied or perhaps was struggling to order his thoughts for it was only after a long mutual pause that he finally started to voice his purpose
“Is your son-in-law Esben here?” he asked of Bramstorp who subsequently nodded in affirmation. “And your wife?”
“Yes. Do you want me to get them?”
“Please do sir. I wish to speak to you’re entire family.”
“Maids, butlers? Shall I fetch them also?” Bramstorp laughed.
“No,” Sandler responded grimly, apparently having little patience for humor.
The requested duo was eventually added among the group, forming a pentad within the parlor. Sandler took a seat and finally removed his hat, a black top hat around which was tied a bronze colored sash. Bramstorp subsequently noticed a slight graying of the roots about the left side of the foreign minister’s scalp.
“Now,” began Sandler. “you all know that the likelihood that we will become embroiled in war has increased exponentially because of the Prime Minister’s recent call to abdicate our stance of neutrality. I do not think this is debatable; we are closer to war than we have been for many decades and…it is partly the result of my actions, or rather my agreement with those present at the October seventh meeting.”
“My son-in-law and I were there, of course,” noted Bramstorp whose curiosity was quite piqued.
“Yes and we were all in agreement that neutrality should be abandoned, myself included, and that we should seek an alliance with the United Kingdom and France. However, I have come to deeply regret this decision. I want to be a peacemaker. I don’t want to be someone whose actions send my country, and perhaps the world, closer to war. Let me say however, that I hold no grudge against you gentlemen for making the decision that you did. How can I after all? I made the same one, though I do regret it.”
“What would you have Sweden do?” asked Bramstorp as he lay back on the sofa, his eyes riveted on Sandler, while he carelessly knocked burning embers from his cigar to the floor.
“Repair our relationship with Germany. There are those within the Reich who deeply want peace. I have met with them. Mr. Von Balfour himself is among them!”
“Well, I assure you we all want peace. That’s precisely why Hansson is pursuing an alliance; so that we might force Germany to abandon further expansionist aims out of fear for allied strength.”
“But that’s the problem. I don’t believe true peace can be born from threats and fear.”
“I certainly understand that position,” Bramstorp responded. “But, frankly, I imagine that a true and lasting peace is beyond the realm of this world. As for Von Balfour, if it is true that he wants peace than I am pleased and hopeful for such an end, but first he should tell his government to curtail its belligerence at the very least. Perhaps then he can begin to achieve his objective.”
“I agree,” replied Sandler as his eyes began to shoot uncomfortable glances wildly across the room. “I suppose complete and total peace is utterly elusive, impossible to fully achieve. It is a dream perhaps, but one which we should hope that all men aspire to.” He halted to discretely calm himself. Within moments he was as still as a Greek stoic. “I think that if we want peace than we should aim for that peace which is born solely from hope, charity and communication, the final being an essential aspect; the means contrary to threats and open war. I admit, that the German government may prove hardened and fixed in their precise objectives, whatever they may be. If that is the case, than we must defend ourselves but it has not come to that, not yet. There is still hope for peace even now, and I want our government to cooperate with the Von Balfour’s of Germany and Italy and Japan and exhaust all options before committing to an alliance. Do you forget the lesson of the Great War?”
“Again, I understand your thoughts, but where are you willing to draw the line? At what point should we become diplomatically aggressive in the face of Nazi belligerence?”
Sandler contemplated. His gaze swept across the room, quickly scanning the quartet of occupants, all staring at him. Esben Bengtsson’s lanky figure on the left was leaning against a bookcase of dark spruce. His hands were plunged into his pockets and Sandler thought he had the look of a university student despite the fact that he was training to become an army officer. Bramstorp sat straight ahead, his lively face hunched forward in anticipation. Teresia sat next to him. She gazed with a curious expression, dark and piercing, yet strangely comforting. Last was Mrs. Bramstorp on the right. She was elegantly dressed, bearing a casual pastel gown and adorned with a superfluity of jewelry. Her focus appeared quite divided and she regularly looked back toward the main hall.
“I don’t know,” Sandler finally answered. “I don’t know exactly how far we can still let Germany travel down her present path, but I know that, as of today, she has not gone so far that we must proceed on Hansson’s course.”
“Well, regardless of this discussion, it’s too late to alter things anyway. Per Albin’s announcement has set the wheels rolling on this thing and only a hostile parliament can stop it.”
“Alas, you are correct,” said Sandler as his head sunk and he clapped a hand to his brow.
The diplomat’s grief inspired an awkward lull that briefly ensnared his hosts. Finally young Mr. Bengtsson spoke.
“Mr. Sandler,” he said gently while strolling slowly forward. “I am sympathetic to your feelings. Although, I’ve joined the army, I am as wary as you are regarding war and conflict. I’ve only done so to protect my country and the people I care for.”
Sandler ordered himself once more.
“Oh, believe me, I understand. I have no quarrel with you for joining up. I know you don’t seek war. I know you want to defend this country and the people you love…a noble endeavor. Truly,” he continued with staunch tone and his voice rising to a low shout. “if war occurs I will be on the battle line with you Mr. Bengtsson!”
Bramstorp couldn’t help but let a laugh escape and the remainder of his family were smiling broadly.
“Oh Mr. Sandler! You are a patriot indeed!” he cried.
“I’m afraid I allowed myself to be carried away, but the substance of my words is true. But please understand that my beliefs are neither against the army nor Hansson for I understand that he seeks to do what is right. I even admire his steadfastness in the face of the massive protests that have nearly put him under siege within the capital. But, I disagree with him. I disagree with the Rickard Sandler of October Seventh.”
“We understand Mr. Sandler,” Mrs. Bramstorp said reassuredly.
“But you won’t change your minds about this?” Sandler asked to Mrs. Bramstorp more than anyone else.
“No, I’m afraid.”
“No, we won’t,” acknowledged Bramstorp himself. “But tell me, why have you come to see us? Why not take this up with Mr. Hansson or the king or someone superior to the minister of agriculture?”
“You are indeed superior to that post you hold Mr. Pehrrson-Bramstorp. You are a close associate of the prime minister as is your son-in-law. Thus, I confess, I hoped that I might influence you so that you two might in turn influence Per Albin. I had hoped that the ladies would be sympathetic to my position and therefore aid in my pursuit but I see I really cannot change your minds. Forgive me for this cloak-and-dagger operation. I shouldn’t have gone behind the prime minister’s back. I feel unworthy of the ideas I have just professed and the privilege of my position. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t dwell on it,” said Teresia.
“I won’t,” said Sandler as he stood up. “Thank you for you’re kindness everyone.”
“Will you leave so soon?” asked Teresia.
“Yes, my mission has failed," he said laughingly before becoming more serious. "I have other engagements but it’s been a pleasure to see you as well as your lovely farm. Though I dare say, the temperature seems quite cool. I fear it may endanger your bountiful yield.”
Moments later he disappeared out the front door and strode into the cold, stepping along the lonely road flanked by the tall cereal crops which led to a waiting auto, humming at the faraway base of the hill.
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I think it is quite a good example of how by trying to prevent a thing - in this case harm to his daughter - Hansson has only ensured that thing has come about. 
