The birdlike judge stepped forward. “John Andersen; Paul Andersen: you will address all remarks to me; most particularly you are not to address minors. Is this understood?”

The Andersen brothers said nothing.

“Is this understood?”

The men nodded. Bror turned away, unable to disguise his smile. I saw now the pleasure he took in our pain, and something in me wanted him dead.

“Let’s go home,” I said. “They have nothing for us.”

“No, Dad,” said Vee.

“Come on.”

“Dad, it was always going to be like this.”

I caught Elsa’s eye. She nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “All right.”

The men had prepared a statement. It was long and dissociative, full of diversions and paranoia: all Arabs, and Jews, and Marxist Cabals. It contained no new information, except that they wished to be known by new Nordic names. Mjölnir and Torshammer. They demanded that the court recognize these names, which seemed unlikely. Hard to believe that two such childish men could inflict so much damage on a country. Unlikely that they could have done it without Bror’s help. Or Licia’s.

We broke for lunch at eleven. The men were led away.

“I used to think this was the last place where Licia was happy,” said Elsa. “I would imagine her waking up on the grass by the boat dock, and looking out across the water. It gave me some sort of peace, you know, thinking that for a time on this island Licia was at peace. But she was already lost.”

Through the gap in the trees I saw a table and two chairs. John and Paul Andersen were looking out across the lake.

“Sitting there, eating and drinking like normal people,” said Vee. “Unbelievable.”

To the left the armed guard: three policewomen on stools, keeping watch. Paul Andersen wiped his mouth on a napkin. He took out a small tin, opened it, formed a lump of tobacco into a rough cube, and inserted it between his upper lip and his gum.

“Yes,” I said. “It is unbelievable.”

There was something obscene about the men at their picnic table, looking out across the fjord, wiping their mouths on their napkins, joking with their guards. As if nothing, to them, had consequence. As if this were just another day and theirs were just another family.

“Vee,” said Elsa. “I want to speak with your father.”

Vee hesitated, but she could see Elsa meant it, and she sloped off toward the lunch line. Bror was watching our daughter too, though he was careful to keep his distance.

“When this is done,” said Elsa, “please help her to forgive me.”

“She does forgive you.”

This surprised Elsa. She laughed. “For what?”

“For bringing us to this country. You couldn’t know what that would mean. None of us could.”

“You’re a good man, Cal, but you really haven’t understood. Not yet.”

Vee was smiling at us from the lunch line.