The Number 7 (32 page)

One week later, every daily and evening newspaper in all of Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Finland published the following letter under the headline “The Number 7 Phantom Sends Message Beyond Grave.”

After the letter's publication, eyewitnesses—some credible, others not—reported sightings of “The Number 7 Phantom” all over Sweden. His newfound notoriety caught Gerhard off guard. He insisted on sleeping in barns instead of domestic lodgings. No one ever asked Gerhard if he was who they believed him to be. After the publication of his letter, which never made its way over the German border, the Nazi party spent a significant amount of time and resources trying to find the fugitive brother. Until 1945, Gerhard was ceaselessly on the move.

At times, he missed his family desperately. He missed Anna and her bright eyes, and he missed his loving parents who, he was concerned, worried about their son constantly. Often, he thought about writing a letter to explain Lasse's final wish and to apologize that he hadn't been wise enough to foresee his brother's plan. But he never sent a note for fear he'd put his life and his family's lives in danger. He hoped the letter in the newspapers was enough proof for them that he was alive.

Two weeks after his own letter, Gerhard read an editorial in the newspapers of Robert's account of that fateful day's events. He read how Lasse had gone to Robert three kilometers before Mile Marker Two and demanded the fireman jump from the moving train. Robert suffered a broken arm but was also given recognition for his bravery. Gerhard regretted that he would never see the boy again.

At the war's conclusion, Gerhard considered returning back to Trelleborg. But after six years of being a nomad, his life had changed. It was impossible to return to Trelleborg without Lasse. He would never be at peace there.

So on May 2, 1946, the “Number 7 Phantom” boarded a ship for Boston, Massachusetts, with a red White Star Line ticket stolen from a dead man. Gerhard had found it in his jacket pocket the day of the train crash. Somehow, Lasse must have convinced Pontus there was a way for him to have his second chance by giving it away. A note written in Pontus's scribbled hand accompanied the ticket. It read, “A chance to begin again.”

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Gerhard shed the skin of his old life. He told his story only once, but he carried it around with him as if he were
Atlas Telamon
holding the entire world on his shoulders. Gerhard wanted so badly for his son to know him—he wanted Christian to understand, but he never got the chance to explain it all to him. It was too hard for him to talk about it. And he was too scared that Christian would see him as a coward. He loved his son more than anything. He wanted so badly to protect him from the truth.

When Gerhard died, I took up his burden. I dragged the story around the house with me like old luggage. Eventually, I locked it away in the attic where I wouldn't have to see it, where I wouldn't have to hear it. There it stayed until you found it. It was easier for me to keep the secret to myself, but that's not what we're supposed to do. You're stronger than I was, Louisa. You remind me so much of him, his spirit. And now you must be his voice. It's time now.

The week after my last phone call was difficult for me when my grandmother finally called me by my name. Since I'd arrived at October Hill Road, I'd come to rely on routine: wake up, go to school, come back to the house and do homework, wait for Grandma. Now, the longing I felt for people whom I had never known—lives that never truly coexisted with my own—was paralyzing. Some days I'd lie in bed and do nothing. I stared at the ceiling for hours and thought of Gerhard and Lasse. Two brothers surrounded by confusion. Two brothers who had been just a little older than I was.

That week was insipid. I tasted nothing. Felt nothing. Wanted nothing. It hurt to know my life—on the outside—was the same. Nothing had changed but me. I was different, but I wasn't able share it with anyone. Not yet. For a month, I climbed the attic steps and waited every night by the phone, waiting for a call I knew would never come. Grandma had finished her narrative—what more was there to tell? Sure, I wanted to know about what happened after—about Dad and his childhood—but that wasn't the story she needed me to know. She left me panicked about my own role in the tale. What did she expect me to do? I was torn. Part of me wanted so much to sit Dad down and tell him everything I knew, but I wasn't ready to become the storyteller. I didn't know if he was ready to hear it. What if he ran?

Gabe knew I was distracted by something, and the only thing I could tell him was that I was struggling with my past. Somehow that seemed to be both completely sufficient and entirely inadequate at the same time. And then one day he surprised me with bus tickets into Philadelphia.

“There's a history museum there. I thought you might like it. You might find some answers.” He suggested gently. He was trying so hard while also giving me my space.

I wanted to collapse. How could it be this whole month, this suffocating month of mourning, and I hadn't thought about it? The American Swedish Historical Museum. The old man with the stories and the
fika
. I needed to revisit that large, dark building and go talk to the man.
Somehow he could help me
.

The bus was running late and we arrived at the museum near closing. The parking lot was as deserted as it had been the first time, but I knew better. In my memory, I could see the old man sitting up in his stuffy library with his shoes to the side and his socked feet rubbing themselves against the carpeted floor. I saw him leafing through old photo albums and carefully fingering the cracked spines of dusty books.

“I'll wait here.” Gabe zipped up his ski jacket and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“But I—”

“You need to find it on your own. Whatever
it
is. I'll be here when you get out.” Gabe nodded toward the door. “You better hurry—it closes in ten minutes.”

I stood conflicted but turned to go. Gabe was right. I needed to hurry. I clenched my own fists together to keep warm while sprinting up the cement steps to the museum entrance.

I rang the bell three times to make sure the front desk heard me. The door slowly opened.

“We're closing.” The same unfriendly woman wrapped her cardigan tightly around her shoulders as she squinted down at me.

“I know,” I bounced my knees nervously. “But there's someone I need to look for.”

I tried to peer behind her beyond the lobby and up the staircase. She watched my eyes, and I saw a hint of recognition as her face softened. She stepped aside to let me pass through the doorway.

I waited at the front reception, never once taking my eyes off the staircase, waiting to see the old man materialize. The woman bolted the door against the winter wind and slowly shuffled her way behind the desk. I hurriedly dug through my shoulder bag to produce the entrance fee, but the woman held up her hand to stop me.

“He's not here.”

“The old man?”

My question seeped with disappointment. I met her gaze and immediately regretted it. Standing in the cold lobby, I found myself staring at a woman whose red-rimmed eyes expressed unquestionable bereavement.

“He passed away last week.” She inhaled deeply and shut her eyes as she composed herself. Her palms pressed firmly down on the desk as she managed a tender smile, “He suspected you might come back.”

I couldn't find the words to say anything. A growing ball lodged itself inside my throat.

The woman bent beneath the desk and reappeared, producing a large manila envelope. “He gave us explicit instructions to leave this for you. In case you came back.” She held out the paper envelope for me to take. For a moment I just stared at it, unsure what to do. Finally, she pushed it further toward me.

“I'm going to go turn off the lights, and then you'll have to go.”

I stood alone in the lobby wondering what I might find inside the parcel. It wasn't completely sealed, and one of the metal brackets had broken off. I bent the remaining clasp up and released the flap. Inside was a newspaper clipping and a note written from a shaking hand; the script barely legible.

The newspaper clipping was yellowed, with fragile, torn edges, and had multiple creases where it had once been tenderly folded. Big block letters read,

I decided I needed to write my grandfather's story out while everything was still fresh in my memory. It took me two weeks and forty pages to get it right. Gabe constantly asked me about my new, important project. It was difficult for me to keep him out, but I promised that he'd be there for the final reveal. I made sure Dad didn't suspect anything. I needed to tell the story on my own terms; I needed to tell it how it was told to me. But I kept postponing the retelling. It never seemed like the right time. And then, something happened that made it impossible for me to put it off any longer. Greta and I had pulled into our driveway in The Thing one Friday in early April. We were alone; Dad was still at work. Greta turned the ignition off, but she didn't move to open the door. She stared straight toward the house before holding up her arm.

“This,” she pulled up her sleeve and offered her wrist to me so I was forced to look. “This was a mistake. It was stupid. I did it once and I'll never do it again. I know that. And I won't just disappear again. I've said my goodbyes to Mom now. But damn it, Louisa, we have to stop pretending. All of us. I can't be invisible anymore. We need to see each other again; we have to open our eyes and stop turning away from each other. We're all we've got, Lou.”

I sat rigidly still until she reached out and tenderly placed her hand on my leg.

“I miss her, Lou. So unbelievably much. But I changed when she died. So did you, and so did Dad. We're all going to have to move on, I get that now, but we have to do it
together
.”

“No matter what you believe, Greta,” I swallowed, staring at her across the armrest, “you've never been invisible to me. I love you, but I can't keep your secret any longer.”

“I know. I'm going to talk to Dad. He and I have a lot of catching up to do, I guess.” She smiled softly, and then she reached for the door. “I love you, too, Louisa.”

Dad wasn't supposed to get back for another hour. I fetched the mail out of the mailbox, but the box's lid came unhinged. An old, rusted screw fell to the ground into the pansy bed Gabe had recently planted for us. Purple and yellow petals fluttered in the light spring breeze. Summer was coming. Soon, we'd be barefoot. I reached down to grab the loose screw from the moist dirt. I needed a screwdriver, and I knew just where to find one. How hard could it be to fix a mailbox?

The cellar doors were heavy. The smell of damp earth overtook me as I slowly stepped down into the humid cavity. Grandpa's workbench was still covered with cobwebs and sawdust. The cellar was a giant catacomb for various parts, miscellaneous pieces, and scrap metal. His model trains were strewn in pieces, some unfinished, some unpainted. I looked under the table for his toolbox but found none. Old coffee cans housed loose nuts, bolts, screws, and nails. A hammer and a socket wrench sat in an old wire crate, but no screwdriver. I reached for a coffee can high up on a crowded shelf. More loose parts.
Where was the screwdriver?
And then I spotted a wooden toolbox under some used paint cans. I lugged the box to the top of the workbench, got it under the light, and blew off a thick layer of dusty grime. The top lifted easily.