by Tove Jansson
The planes come roaring in over our heads on a daily basis, like death’s black cross in the heavens. At night I lie listening as they drone over the sea or climb at dawn to clear the treetops as they make for the mainland.
One day, one of them went down and dumped its load in the sound between us and Rödholmen – another time they attacked one of the pilots carrying a cargo of firewood from Nyttis – presumably thinking it was ammunition. He saved himself by jumping into the water under the boat, but if he hadn’t held on to painter as he did, the swirl of water caused by the bombs dropping would have dragged him down. Yesterday I heard that Asta Kajunas’ brother had been killed.
Tapsa’s last letter, a couple of days ago, says they’re being sent to [deleted by the censor] to relieve the others. He’s written almost every day (when they weren’t actually engaged in combat), delightful, encouraging, loving letters. Ham sends them to me from the studio so Faffan doesn’t see them. It’s a shame – but these days I have to keep everything to do with my private life and my friends hidden from him. We’ve nothing more to say to each other.
If the war doesn’t claim Tapsa, I want to keep him. A new urge has been growing inside me for something lasting and stable, something warm that one can rely on – I’m tired of episodes and violent love affairs. Tapsa and I know what to expect of each other, there’s infinitely more to it than the sexual aspect, and our correspondence and the war have brought us closer in a wonderful way. He’s taught me not to be scared of life. If he comes back, I will be the one (with everybody here at home) being brave and cheerful and trying to help him forget “what no human being should have to see”. I’m tired of having to fight for my friends and absolve them from accusations – I want to be left in peace with Tapsa. He is one of the nicest, most unselfish people I’ve known, he is my route to greater growth, peace, joy and warmth. I’m grown up now, and as my obligations increase, I also have a right to a life of my own. –
Lasse and I have spent our time here pottering around doing a thousand little jobs that have lent this summer the illusion of being like other years, even though the great shadow of war has always been lurking in the background.
We cleaned and repainted the sailing boat, went fishing – which yielded minimal provisions – collected horse manure and went diving for seaweed out on Sanskär, watered the plants with seawater, picked blueberries and made frantic attempts to tame the garden which after 5 weeks of neglect had twisted itself into a more or less impenetrable jungle. We haven’t been able to get over to the islands – only to Nyttis. Lasse is ideal company, quiet but cheery, and ready to do whatever I ask of him. Abbe, who’s in camp on one of the closest outer islands, sometimes pays us a visit in his motorboat, and works the whole night of his leave on his half-finished boat orders. Fanny has been going around grumbling to herself about the “ryssin” ever since that day she almost dropped dead from fright on [deleted by the censor] as the bombs came down just offshore. She and Freya dashed off into the forest like streaks of lightning. She spends long hours looking out of the window at dawn, the eyes in her long sallow face expressionless. Old Kalle goes calmly about all his little tasks or just stands there looking out to sea, and Lasse flaps about the place with his butterfly net. The leisurely uneventfulness of it all started getting on my nerves for a while – but now I just think how lovely it is.
The other day they sent search parties to comb the island for Soviet spies who had parachuted in – I later heard it was on account of “secret signals”, markers just inland along the coast. I have to report to my deep shame that these markers were my way of staking out a new path to Sauna Cove last summer! And now they’d pretty much sown panic in the village! – At the top of a tall pine just by Laxvarpet I’ve installed a little platform – from there you can see through a sort of green window out over the sea. Childish nonsense, I know – but it still gives me a sense of secret satisfaction and elation. It’s late evening now. The rainclouds are chasing across the sky and the forest is murmuring. In the distance there’s something wailing: a siren perhaps. It’s sombre and beautiful. I’m sitting here shielding the light from my torch and writing. Huge, huge love – Eva! How wonderful it would be to hear how things are for you!
Tove
P.S. 6th, had a card from Tapsa.
Ada hadn’t managed to get an entry permit for Stockholm by the time I came out here. Samu’s painting at Munksnäs for all he is worth, but I shall leave them in peace because it just depresses me, having no contact with them. From Carin a melancholy letter from Stockholm that she wrote ages ago. Rosa – did I already say this? – is in hospital with tuberculosis. That’s all I can tell you about our friends.
R.U.K.: The school for reserve officers. Elsewhere referred to as Rukken.
Abbe: Son of Old Kalle [Gustafsson], from whom the Jansson family rented the summer cottage.
Fanny: Sister of Kalle Gustafsson.
Ada: Ada Indursky, fellow student on TJ’s course at the Ateneum.
23/8 –41 EDENS NÄS
Cheerio, dear old missus!
Today I got your first letter, a good three months after you left! It was good to hear from you, almost like talking to you again. I read your letter with a torch under the covers on account of the “pesky flies”, as the first real storm of the autumn raged outside. Konikova, I’m so glad you like it in the new country! Just you see, you’ll find more than you expected beneath the surface of the new people you’re going to live with.
You really must have felt pretty bewildered those first four days – a whirlwind of new impressions and people dragging you off in all directions. As you see, I’ve a very clear picture of your new American appearance! Just imagine if you could go to New York, Eva, and find a job there. Somehow I’m sure you’re going to be happy in America and find your feet there. I’m glad you made good your escape – after the war things could get distressing here in so many ways.
It was sweet of you to write so soon, though you must have been terribly tired once the excitement of the journey was over. And fancy you, in the midst of so much that’s new, taking the trouble to ask me about those little details of all our lives here at home. I hope that by now you’ve had some of my letters? I sent the last one on 6 Aug. Now there’s only a week of summer left, and after that Ham and I will go into town and leave Faffan, Lasse and Impi (and Mosse of course) to reap and gather into barns in September. Faffan only came out yesterday, because he had a hard job finding anyone to make the plaster cast of his naiad for the Bernsow building. He’s been toiling away at it all summer and seems tired, thin. I was a bit taken aback to see that he’s starting to go grey – somehow it’s natural for Ham to go white, but Faffan must always keep his brown thatch. Maybe because he’s a boy, despite his years. It’ll be nice to know he’s out here in his fish and mushroom paradise. Ham and I are going to be a carefree, female, politics-free household in town. I think she’s been able to rest a little these three weeks – she’s cheerful, has energy for everything; a wholly changed Ham since we heard Prolle had got into Rukken. He rarely writes because they’ve so much work they have to be given leave to cram for their exams at night. Their officers are crazily fierce and the drill is tough. The course is bound to be cut short, I reckon.
Lasse has devoted his whole summer to his big, burning interest: butterflies. Jars of larvae, stretchers, sheets of glass, jottings all over the house. It’s nice to see how completely and patiently he can get absorbed in something. He’s been wonderful company for me. I don’t feel lonely here any more, by the way – I even relish being left in peace and get annoyed when people turn up outside the house. I often take a walk to Laxvarpet and climb up to the platform in my pine tree and sit there for hours, writing and reading or just looking out of my green window at the sea.
I’ve painted very little, but I’m not worried. I’ve treated these weeks as a gift of tranquillity and delight after that dismal, hectic time in town. Perhaps also as something I need, in view of everything one
might have to face this autumn.
Every day there’s a letter from Tapsa waiting in the village. Warm, encouraging, very beautiful and loving letters. Only once did he write in utter despair, broken down by all the appalling things he’s experienced and seen around him. It was when they’d been sent back behind the lines to rest, and with the tension lifted there was nothing to stop him thinking and all the horror and senselessness of war came crashing over him and filled him with terror at the idea of going back. He also wrote about a medal he’d got. But the very next day he’s calm and cheerful, with faith in the future and the human race, and “my hands that are now being used for destruction will no doubt soon be back to doing what they long for – creating and building up.”
Initially I was very afraid of losing him, and would paint horrifying pictures in my mind, imagining great emptiness and loneliness to come. I tried to make my letters sound happy so as not to deflate his confidence – and after a while it stopped being so hard to keep my anxiety out of them. I believed he’d come back and I wrote from that point of view. It’s very satisfying to know that my letters were a help to him. I’ve gradually started feeling less impoverished, my emotions are stronger, more honest. Sometimes I think that if I can only love enough, it must preserve him for me. [ … ]
We’ve had violent storms here these past two days, coming straight in from the south. The sea throws up debris: bits of boats and planes, lifebelts, clothes. The constant faraway rumble of cannon, the flares blaze into the darkness and the pesky flies go roaring over. At first I used to run out to the privy when they came, the only place I felt safe, childishly enough – but now I don’t bother any more. Last week Faffan was here for a couple of days while his naiad dried, and when it was time for him to go back we rowed him over to the mainland at night to avoid the pesky flies. It was brilliant!
Over the sea the thunderclouds were gathering, standing out sharply in gleaming bluish-white against a night sky reflecting the red of distant lightning flashes. Off we glided with a brisk wind behind us and arrived at dawn, delivering Faffan before going on to Ragni Cawén’s, where we stayed all day. As we were having a swim, a pesky fly we hadn’t noticed in the sound of the surf came droning in at low altitude. I splashed to shore at lightning speed, the others stayed in the water. But it only made a pass above our heads and continued with its load. We set off home in the night in a south-westerly storm. Took it in turns to row, keeping in the lee of the islands. It was ghastly and grandiose, black and boiling, the crests of the waves luminous white under a magnificent, starry sky. When we finally put into Sauna Cove after several hours’ rowing we felt our way ashore and huddled there in the open air under a wet old horse blanket. Froze like dogs for a couple of hours and then went on, in a desperate state. I’ve no idea how we got round the point, I was disgustingly seasick. And to crown it all I had to spend two days in bed, back and stomach ache. What a feeble wretch I am!
Other than that the days have passed calmly and uneventfully – filled with the collecting of berries and mushrooms, seaweed, manure and roots. I’m trying to learn English and gradually picking my way through the language. You must be learning fast now you hear it around you all the time and have to speak it.
Sometimes I get such a strong urge to go off to some place where they speak a foreign language and nobody recognises me. It’s sickening to think of all the wonderful places on earth one will never see – as the days just plod by. One day I shall go to Brittany with Ham. And one day I want to see America, Mexico, New York, California. With you. But this is certainly no time for dreams. We have to take each day as a gift, as it comes.
I’m keenly anticipating your next letter. We all send our greetings, lots of them. I do wish you the very best, Konikova, and don’t ever feel homesick. A big, big hug
your friend Tove.
“pesky flies”: The Russian bombers.
H:FORS 24/9 –41
28/9 Abrascha rang, and sends best wishes! As does your mama.
Eva, dearest –
My drawing is in the press to dry, so I’ve stolen a moment to talk to you – just as I would have run up to see you for fifteen minutes if you’d been here.
You know that when we’re missing someone our feelings can stay calm and even for a long time, but suddenly ignite for some entirely insignificant reason. That was what happened as I went past Colombia the other day – I went in and sat down at our table, where we sat on one our last days, and felt rotten, and really missed you a lot.
I sat there one day with Arno, too, having bumped into him on the street. He was home on a few days’ leave, had been there on the Isthmus and talked about his extraordinary luck with an expression of surprise and reverence. He’s off to Terijoki next, to a job in transport, so maybe one painter is thereby spared for his canvases, at least in this war.
He was tremendously happy to have had a card from you, and I filled him in on the rest of the American news. He kept coming back to you as he was talking, couldn’t say enough about how splendid and radiant you were at the goodbye party in your room. And he sent his – warmest – wishes.
The war has claimed another painter – Hageli. It’s awful – and still seems inconceivable. He always seemed so exceptionally alive and was such a life-affirming person. I’m glad now that our past spot of professional bother was sorted out last spring and that I went to the art school. “Make peace with your antagonist while he is beside you on the same path.” But maybe Hageli was spared from following the curve as it turned down, he was able to leave while still at the top – before any possibility of his hopes being dashed so he ended up old and bitter.
Yesterday I had a visit from a little soldier – Boris. He was home on weekend leave – and you can imagine how much I appreciated him making time to pay a call on Ham and me, though he had so many people to see. It was a completely new Boris I saw before me: animated, talkative, liberated somehow, and more self-aware. He told us about the work camp where he’s been, gave us a surprisingly lively description of the various kinds of lice they encountered (colour, shape and character), while there were big notices, decorated with sprigs of birch and announcing “Cleanliness is the army’s foremost virtue”, pinned up amid all the junk. He talked about people he’d met, about the work – offered his own views and criticism – and I was charmed, and thought: if only he writes to Eva the way he talks, she’ll realise this young man is going to be all right. The whole boy seems to have woken up. Don’t worry about him – after a.u.k. which takes at least six weeks he’s going to try to get into Rukken, or he might get work as an interpreter. A friend has already recommended him and told him where to apply.
Prolle’s course ends on 1 Oct and then it’ll either be the front or bark orders, i.e. it’ll be his turn to boss the new little Rukken recruits about. If it’s the latter I’ll be ready to sink down and howl out loud with gratitude and relief. As it is, worry takes hold; you may ostensibly be living a normal everyday life, working as usual – being cheerful, but there’s a permanent dark, burrowing background of anxiety and lots of horribly graphic pictures in your mind’s eye, hard always to keep at bay.
25/9
But Prolle himself would rather go to the front – first because it seems easier to him than being sent for crushing into the unbearable atmosphere of excessive militarism, and then because he “needs to see and experience the war to have a firmer and more factual basis for his opinions on it”. O that dear boy, he’s the same as ever!
His friend Stige who was in England and the North Cape with him was sent back to H:fors because of an intestinal haemorrhage and came to see us before he was sent out there again. It was desperate to see him trying to hide his dread of going back. They’d asked for volunteers, lined the boys up and asked 10 to step forward. Nobody moved. So they were subjected to a blazing speech – “it wasn’t at all as dangerous as they thought – it was really nice, you got bravery crosses and iron crosses …” And wooden crosses, chimed in somebody from the ranks.
It was set to turn into a real scandal. Then they called them in one by one, and that way they persuaded them to go “voluntarily” …
Tapsa’s forging his way through the marshes somewhere over towards Petroskoi. They haven’t had any post for several weeks – and when we don’t hear from him, I persuade myself the useless postal service is to blame. I really miss him – and wonder if he’ll be very changed when he comes home.