sudden she was there with him, and he had an opportunity to comfort her.
“Anki,” he said, pulling her to him, her dress rustling as she ended up on top of him. “It’s all right now, you’re here with me.”
She pulled away, reaching for her jacket, then got up and went out into the hall.
The distance she imposed between them made him annoyed again, mixed up with disappointment and bitterness.
“I’ve got my meeting with Per Cramne at the Department today,” he called after her, unnecessarily loudly. “This is a big day for me!”
He thought he heard her open the fridge door and pour herself a drink.
She didn’t answer.
SUBJECT: In the Shadow of Death
TO: Andrietta Ahlsell
Emil, Emil, the youngest and the blondest of the Nobel brothers, the one who dances and laughs most.
How Alfred loves him.
Emil, who has just passed his final exams, Emil, who is looking forward to starting his course at the Institute of Technology, Emil, who wants to be like his big brother, who wants to be like Alfred.
In his free time he helps his big brother with his work, oh, how he works—and he’s smart! He gets so good that he has responsibility for the production of the nitroglycerine that’s going to be used in the construction of the main rail line north of Stockholm, the new railway, part of the new age.
It’s the morning of Saturday, September 3, 1864, and he’s standing out in the fenced-off yard outside Alfred’s laboratory, distilling glycerine with C. E. Hertzman, a fellow student, you can almost hear their voices in the clear air, a hint of autumn on the wind.
Perhaps Alfred hears them. Perhaps big brother listens to their laughter and chat as he stands by his open window on the ground floor of the main building, talking to Blom, the engineer.
Then, at half past ten, Södermalm shakes, foundations crumble, windows break on Kungsholmen, on the other side of Riddarfjärden. A great yellow flame is visible throughout the whole of the capital, a flame that quickly becomes an enormous pillar of smoke.
Alfred is hit by the shockwave in his window, he gets thrown to the floor with facial injuries. A carpenter, Nyman, who happens to be passing on the street outside, is blown to pieces. A thirteen-year-old messenger boy, Herman Nord, and nineteen-year-old Maria Nordqvist are also killed. The bodies of Emil and his friend Hertzman are in such a bad state that at first it was impossible to say how many people had died.
The destruction of the laboratory complex is immense. The Postal Paper writes laconically: “Of the factory nothing remained other than a few blackened remnants, scattered hither and thither. In all the buildings in the vicinity, and even in those on the other side of the sound, not only were all the windowpanes broken, but also the lintels of their frames.”
Stockholmers spoke about the Nobel explosion for several decades.
Alfred himself goes back to work the next day.
He never speaks about the accident. He writes hundreds of letters, but he never mentions it.
And he never marries. He never has any children. He leaves his life’s work to those who carry humanity forward, through peace, inventions, and literature.
In his correspondence he describes his great loneliness, his deep sense of meaninglessness, his gnawing restlessness.
Never home, always traveling.
Annika was walking down a long corridor with no end in sight. Large crystal chandeliers swayed above her head, the pieces of glass tinkling and rattling even though there was no obvious breeze.
Far away, so far ahead that the walls almost merged, she could just make out a faint source of light.
She knew what it was.
Caroline was there. Caroline von Behring, the dead woman—she was waiting for Annika up ahead, but Annika had to hurry, she had to run, it was vitally important, and suddenly a wind blew up, a terrible headwind that made the chandeliers crash back and forth above her, shrieking and rattling and clattering above her head.
I’m
“Anki,” he said, pulling her to him, her dress rustling as she ended up on top of him. “It’s all right now, you’re here with me.”
She pulled away, reaching for her jacket, then got up and went out into the hall.
The distance she imposed between them made him annoyed again, mixed up with disappointment and bitterness.
“I’ve got my meeting with Per Cramne at the Department today,” he called after her, unnecessarily loudly. “This is a big day for me!”
He thought he heard her open the fridge door and pour herself a drink.
She didn’t answer.
SUBJECT: In the Shadow of Death
TO: Andrietta Ahlsell
Emil, Emil, the youngest and the blondest of the Nobel brothers, the one who dances and laughs most.
How Alfred loves him.
Emil, who has just passed his final exams, Emil, who is looking forward to starting his course at the Institute of Technology, Emil, who wants to be like his big brother, who wants to be like Alfred.
In his free time he helps his big brother with his work, oh, how he works—and he’s smart! He gets so good that he has responsibility for the production of the nitroglycerine that’s going to be used in the construction of the main rail line north of Stockholm, the new railway, part of the new age.
It’s the morning of Saturday, September 3, 1864, and he’s standing out in the fenced-off yard outside Alfred’s laboratory, distilling glycerine with C. E. Hertzman, a fellow student, you can almost hear their voices in the clear air, a hint of autumn on the wind.
Perhaps Alfred hears them. Perhaps big brother listens to their laughter and chat as he stands by his open window on the ground floor of the main building, talking to Blom, the engineer.
Then, at half past ten, Södermalm shakes, foundations crumble, windows break on Kungsholmen, on the other side of Riddarfjärden. A great yellow flame is visible throughout the whole of the capital, a flame that quickly becomes an enormous pillar of smoke.
Alfred is hit by the shockwave in his window, he gets thrown to the floor with facial injuries. A carpenter, Nyman, who happens to be passing on the street outside, is blown to pieces. A thirteen-year-old messenger boy, Herman Nord, and nineteen-year-old Maria Nordqvist are also killed. The bodies of Emil and his friend Hertzman are in such a bad state that at first it was impossible to say how many people had died.
The destruction of the laboratory complex is immense. The Postal Paper writes laconically: “Of the factory nothing remained other than a few blackened remnants, scattered hither and thither. In all the buildings in the vicinity, and even in those on the other side of the sound, not only were all the windowpanes broken, but also the lintels of their frames.”
Stockholmers spoke about the Nobel explosion for several decades.
Alfred himself goes back to work the next day.
He never speaks about the accident. He writes hundreds of letters, but he never mentions it.
And he never marries. He never has any children. He leaves his life’s work to those who carry humanity forward, through peace, inventions, and literature.
In his correspondence he describes his great loneliness, his deep sense of meaninglessness, his gnawing restlessness.
Never home, always traveling.
Annika was walking down a long corridor with no end in sight. Large crystal chandeliers swayed above her head, the pieces of glass tinkling and rattling even though there was no obvious breeze.
Far away, so far ahead that the walls almost merged, she could just make out a faint source of light.
She knew what it was.
Caroline was there. Caroline von Behring, the dead woman—she was waiting for Annika up ahead, but Annika had to hurry, she had to run, it was vitally important, and suddenly a wind blew up, a terrible headwind that made the chandeliers crash back and forth above her, shrieking and rattling and clattering above her head.
I’m
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