‘Until a short time ago, this wasn’t in any history books. In September 2008, a historian named Pasi Tervomaa published his Ph.D. dissertation, “Einsatzkommando Finnland and Stalag 309: Secret Finnish and German Security Police Collusion in the Second World War.”
‘He claims that in 1941, our security police, Valpo, and their Gestapo set up a special unit, Einsatzkommando Finnland, to destroy ideological and racial enemies on the far north of the German Eastern Front.’
‘So what? Finns volunteering to fight for Germany on the Eastern Front is well-documented. The SS Freewill Nordic Battalion. SS Viking. Others. It made sense. For Finland and Germany, Soviet Russia was a common enemy. And it wasn’t just Finland. The SS took in soldiers from all over the Nordic area.’
‘This is different,’ Jyri says. ‘Germany opened a prisoner-of-war camp – Stalag 309 – in Salla. It’s in Russia now, but at the time it was part of northern Finland. Tervomaa claims Valpo and Einsatzkommando Finnland collaborated in the liquidation of Communists and Jews. Lined them up and shot them and buried them in mass graves. If his accusations are true, Finnish actions constitute war crimes.’
‘What does this have to do with my grandfather?’
‘Apparently, your mother’s father worked in Stalag 309.’
‘How would you know if a guy who worked in a stalag was my grandfather?’
Jyri sighs. ‘Me. The interior minister. We’re plugged into the intelligence community. We learn things. We know things.’
‘Even if he was, again, so what? He’s dead.’
‘As are all the other Finns who worked in it, except for one. Arvid Lahtinen, age ninety. Eyewitness testimony states that he, among other Finns, personally took part in executions. The Simon Wiesenthal Center sent a formal request that Finland investigate the matter, which we haven’t done to their satisfaction, and now Germany has requested extradition. They want to charge Lahtinen with accessory to murder.’
‘How the fuck can Germany charge him with anything? The claim is that he worked for them.’
‘Ah. But you see, therein lies the rub. Germany granted general amnesty for war crimes to its own citizens in 1969, so it has to expiate its sins by punishing others. They recently filed similar charges against another old man, accused him of being a guard at Sobibor and involved in the killing of twenty-nine thousand Jews. They extradited him from the U.S.’
‘How can the world not have realized that Finland had a stalag on its soil until sixty-five years after the war ended?’
‘Potential Finnish culpability has been largely ignored because of language lockout. We don’t want to talk about it, and very few people in this world besides us can read our documentation. It seems someone at the Wiesenthal Center learned to read Finnish and noticed Tervomaa’s book.’
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘Finland and Germany have an extradition treaty. The Interior Ministry has to at least investigate the matter. The minister wants you to interview Arvid Lahtinen.’
Now it all becomes clear. ‘Because if I find the old man took part in the Holocaust, it means my grandfather did, too. I’ll give you credit, that’s conniving.’
‘I liked it. Lahtinen is notoriously irascible and has a habit of telling people to fuck off. We need him to cooperate. You charm him, tell him your grandfather served with him, get him to talk to you. Either come back with proof that he’s not guilty, or the two of you concoct a convincing enough lie to get the Germans off Finland’s back.’
‘If he’s guilty, why lie?’
‘Arvid Lahtinen is a Finnish hero. Every December sixth, on Independence Day, he’s invited to the gala at the Presidential Palace. The president shakes his hand and thanks him for his service to his country. Lahtinen was in the Winter War in 1939 and 1940. He took out six Soviet tanks, charged them and destroyed them with Molotov cocktails. He fought in almost minus-fifty-degree weather and personally shot and killed hundreds of Russians. He slaughtered Communists at the Battle of Raate Road and helped save this country. Finland needs its heroes. Pay the man a visit, and keep that in mind while you interview him.’
Jyri sucks down a last sip from his flask, stands up, takes a sheet of notepaper from his pocket and lays it on my desk. ‘Here’s his contact information. I’ll report to the interior minister that you promise full cooperation. Keep me informed. I’m going back to the party. Some grade-A pussy was there, and I’m dying to stick my dick in it. Welcome to murharyhmä.’
He gives me a grin and a wink on his way out the door.
Chapter 4
As if I don’t have enough to think about, Jyri, never the bearer of glad tidings, has forced me to consider the possibility that my ukki – grandpa – was a mass murderer. I loved him dearly. Before he retired, he was a blacksmith. He gave me ice cream when we visited in the summers, and always let me sit on his lap. He used to put salt in his beer. He never mentioned the war. I remember somebody asking him about it once – I guess hoping Ukki would share some heroic tales – but Ukki kept mum.
I don’t give a damn about political agendas, but Jyri did a good job of manipulating me. Desire for the truth about Ukki will force me to talk to Arvid Lahtinen.
No doubt there are corpses to be examined. I turned my phone off while talking to Jyri. I wander down the hall to Milo’s office to see if the dispatcher has called, but can’t stop thinking about Ukki. The throb of the migraine renews itself. I open Milo’s door. He’s got a look on his face like I caught him jerking off.
‘You could knock,’ he says.
I have no idea why I just walked in on him. It’s unlike me. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘My mind was somewhere else.’
His service pistol, a 9mm Glock, is fieldstripped, in pieces on his desk. Beside it are a Dremel tool and a box of ammo. A few loose semi-jacketed soft-point rounds are lined up in a row beside a little jar. A desk drawer is open. I get the impression he left it that way so if someone knocked, he could scoop the stuff into it and hide it quick.
Milo’s scowl is justifiable. ‘Well, get your head out of your fucking ass,’ he says.
Milo’s shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I see that despite his small stature, he’s built out of ropey muscle.
‘What are you working on?’ I ask.
‘None of your business.’
Whatever he’s doing must be at least against police procedure, maybe against the law. His discomfiture amuses me. I suppress a grin and wait for him to tell me. We stare at each other for a while.
‘I’m trying to figure out if it’s possible to install a three-round-burst selector switch into a Glock Model 19,’ he says.
‘Why?’
‘Because, as every soldier knows, three-round 9mm bursts take men down, single shots usually don’t.’
‘Three-round bursts often kill, not part of our mandate.’
He gets a cocky look on his face. ‘Show me where it says that in the police handbook.’
There is no police handbook or detailed set of rules and codes. He’s fucking with me. ‘Don’t be a jackass,’ I say.
He says nothing.
‘Well, can you?’ I ask.
‘Can I what?’
‘Install the selector switch.’
‘Yes.’
‘If you shoot someone, they might examine your weapon. If they see the selector switch, you’ll lose your job, maybe get prosecuted.’
‘The switch can be removed and the drill tap filled with a small screw,