“It was their lucky day, I see,” Elis says, happy to hear she’s in a good mood. And it will get better, because the post has come, and there are the daily papers, weekly magazines, letters and cards! “Look!” he says. “I shouldn’t have shown them to you until we’d eaten!” They laugh. There are crosswords in the dailies, serials in the weeklies, news and greetings in the letters. Plus The Humanitarian, the organ of the Lutheran Evangelical Society, which has two subscribers on the Örlands—the pastor and Adele. The verger can’t afford it, and the organist doesn’t have time to read it after all his other duties. And the members of the vestry, who ought to subscribe, don’t, out of laziness and lack of conviction. It’s sad. Still, the day has had its pleasures, and thanks to the post, these will now stretch late into the evening.
There is a great deal resting on Adele’s shoulders. She is well equipped to manage her temporal obligations. She needs help with the spiritual. This is why it is so important that the priest on the Örlands should be a kindred spirit. Someone who understands why she worries about the thoughtless Örlanders with their slumbering piety, someone who sees the importance of religious revival, a renewal of faith. Someone who can inspire and lead. Someone like this very young priest who preaches a pure and unaffected word of God and by his very example has won the friendship and the respect of his congregation. God grant that he is the instrument the Lord has sent to preach salvation to the whole community!
The parsonage too is observing a devout newspaper silence. The post is collected at the steamboat channel where the icebreaker Murtaja passes Mellom on its toilsome way to Mariehamn, then carried on to the Örlands by Post-Anton and his mare. Much of the mail goes to the parsonage, so Anton stops there and does an initial sorting, since he passes that way in any case. The mare is hitched in the lea of the sauna and given some oats; Anton gets coffee in the house. The two of them are now on their way home, and the pastor and his wife and the pastor’s eager father throw themselves on the mail—several issues of Hufvudstadsbladet and Ålandstidningen, plus The Churchgoer and The Humanitarian. It’s the pile of letters they rake through most eagerly. Official communications are set aside to be opened later, but they grab the private letters at once, slit them open with anything sharp that comes to hand. Three from Mama, a greeting from the Helléns, a letter from one of Mona’s friends at the seminary and one of Petter’s colleagues, a letter in unfamiliar handwriting on thick, luxurious paper with a Swedish stamp that turns out to come from an elderly gentleman who wants to know how best to lend support to the people of the island world which once, in his distant youth—oh, so long ago—gave him indelible, unforgotten revelations of God’s magnificent creation. Definitely a letter worthy of a hearty reply. But now it’s time to read the newspapers! Even at the parsonage, The Humanitarian is set aside till later and winds up in the study in an accusatory half-read pile while the three adults trade issues of Hufvudstadsbladet and Ålandstidningen among themselves. Sanna has to make do with The Humanitarian. She turns the pages attentively, rustling the paper and exclaiming, “My word!” and “I’ve never heard the like” and “Good ice, it says here.”
The advertisements are also worth reading. The Co-operative Central on Åland announces receipt of a shipment of oranges— they hope Adele has her hand in. Maybe there were some boxes in Anton’s sledge already, although he didn’t say anything. It’s worth asking, and getting there early when the store opens in the morning.
Domestic politics, murder, auto accidents, sports and international news, a sprightly column by one of the many Hellén cousins, the film listings in Helsingfors for the preceding week, book reviews, a new play at the Swedish Theatre, engagements, births and deaths, comic strips at the back of the Saturday edition—a world they don’t miss but love to read about. The voice of home. And even though they’ve been happy to shake off their attachment to home, it’s where they have family, old friends, culture, everything!
At the verger’s house, the verger reads aloud to Signe from Ålandstidningen. Many astonishing occurrences in the province, plus some reflections by one of its priests that calls forth a comparison: “Neither life nor spirit. Ours does it better.” It warms his soul. And there is more to read. He has in any case made a good start, whereas the organist for his part has not yet had time to collect his mail. His sons are nowhere to be found. How can such conspicuous boys be so invisible? And what’s the point of their growing up when they spend their time out on the ice, all the way out to the lighthouses, looking for seals, without doing a blasted thing that might be of use here on land. There’s a cow in the barn with strangles, there’s wood needs chopping, hay to bring home from the island barn now that the ice is in perfect condition, drift nets to be mended so you don’t stand there amazed at the end of July wondering where all the holes came from. Inside the house there are petitions and writs to be prepared, bills of sale to be drawn up, wills and estate inventories to be witnessed, the Co-op’s accounts to be examined and audited, the township council’s minutes to be completed and posted on the notice board at the store, an agenda to be proposed for the coming vestry meeting. No limits or end to it all. Not to mention the need to keep his fingers limber and hymns practised now that they finally have a priest who understands church music.
The organist is the eldest child of an able mother and believed when he married, deeply in love, that all women were the same. Capable and energetic, skilful and enterprising. Like Mona Kummel, he thinks admiringly, not like Francine. For Francine, a great many things are overwhelming. The household, for example. Childbearing and child care are exhausting. Animal husbandry, difficult. The organist is the first man on the Örlands to have been seen going into the cow barn with his wife at milking time. Francine is with him, but it’s he who ties up a refractory wretch of a cow so it can’t kick, and it’s he who carries the pails and scrubs them. Indoors at the organist’s, it’s his mother who runs the household. Francine isn’t lazy. She mends clothes and does a little of everything, but she rarely finishes. Without Mama, they couldn’t manage, but he understands that it’s because of Mama that Francine is less enterprising and always ready to give up too quickly, because Mama will always step in and finish a job when she’s half done.
Maybe this is why Francine has bouts of despair and lies in bed and says she wants to die if she has any more children. No one understands that she doesn’t have the strength. There’s no one who can help her. His mother says she’s small and weak. Is a woman supposed to have the strength of a man? Round and round, a circle of despair.
He chose her against his mother’s express wish. He was calm and bold and certain, he who otherwise is so often nervous and full of doubts. People believe that they make correct decisions when they are calm, but calmness can be a form of self-deception. And what is in fact a correct decision? A prudent decision? Or a decision in line with an individual’s deepest hopes and desires? That was the case when he proposed, and because he has had to defend that act to himself again and again, he has also defended his love and bolstered it on all sides so that he is the only man on the Örlands who openly sees to his wife’s comfort, although everyone knows the way things are.
Adele should have had such a husband—masculine, good-looking, richly gifted, intelligent, responsible. Competent, effective. His only weakness Francine, who would actually have suited Elis better. Elis is a nice person, good-hearted, friendly, interested in much, but without the organist’s industry and drive. In a different world, they might have made a quiet trade, but in this world that’s not possible. You’re married to the person you married, and that way, Adele thinks, you never have to worry that maybe he doesn’t want you. No growing disaffection, no disappointment need ever intrude upon her relationship with the organist. Best that way, but oh! Nevertheless, he goes home to Francine when he’s tired and worn out from work. He comes to the store before the day has sucked the life out of him, looks into the office on some errand having to do with the upcoming Co-op board meeting. Follo
wed by discussions about the final clean copy of the minutes and the never-ending need for further meetings. His hand has held the paper and pen, his dear writing covers the page like his voice, and when he has gone, it lies open on her desk like a bright light all through the busy day.
Francine, on the other hand, after all these years, still feels as if she were living in a strange house, and sometimes she sneaks into her childhood home, desolate now that everyone is dead. So cold she can see her breath, the stove rusty, the beds empty. No one comes here, unless she stays too long and they start looking. She is expecting another child and knows it won’t go well. She’s too old, and she’s embarrassed to say anything. She doesn’t know what she thinks, it’s as if she lay floating under the ice, her hair adrift, her memory adrift. What she’s supposed to think and believe adrift.
He has such good words, he touches her so well. She thought at the time that with him she could live a good, protected life. As she grew up, she could never stand to watch the cow calve, and when her own time approached it was no better. And there was nowhere to hide. She’s heard her mother-in-law say that Francine’s deliveries haven’t been especially difficult. What does she know about it? And then baby after baby, she who wanted to remain a child herself. But once the misfortune has occurred, she can let him come to her without anxiety, for now things are the way they are.
The organist tells her that the pastor’s wife is presumably in the family way as well, though the pastor has only hinted. This news is supposed to be encouraging, but the pastor’s wife is young and healthy and strong and spirited. For her, bearing a child is a dance she’ll do quickly and well, the way she does everything. What does she know about what it will be like for Francine? Just one good push and the baby lies there, that’s all there is to it.
Francine is not entirely mistaken, for the pastor’s wife rarely thinks about being pregnant, and she’s not really worried about the delivery. The former pastor’s wife went to Åbo and sat there for weeks, waiting, but Mona Kummel hasn’t the time for that. Moreover, the midwife on the Örlands has a degree in gynaecology, although her qualifications are formulated in Russian, and there is a homecare sister on the Örlands who can be engaged for the first week. In other words, all the arrangements are made and the pastor’s wife has other things to think about. The household, for one thing, and being constantly prepared for unexpected guests, and the cow barn, where the first-class hay has kept the cows in fine form, their milk as good as it was in the autumn. Mending and darning, writing letters, the church choir created and led by the organist, where the pastor’s wife sings first soprano and the pastor bass. Thanks to the incomparable ice this winter, it’s easy for everyone to get to church. The two halves of the community have an equal journey. The choir members practise their parts as they kick their sledges, and when they get to the church, they and their voices are already warm. They sing a few verses to hear how they sound in the fine acoustics of the church, but then they all move to the parsonage, where they rehearse in the parlour. The whole hall is full of their coats and furs, and the parlour is full of song.
Then Sanna bursts into tears, and Papa senses that what she’s feeling amidst this sea of coats and the choir’s mighty singing is a deep loneliness, which can affect anyone who stands outside of it all—ice, church, song. He picks her up and tells her not to feel bad, and then he whispers a secret—this summer she’s going to get a little brother or sister and won’t that be fun!
The church choir sledging its way home across the ice has figured out the truth. In fact, it’s hardly news, for the rumour began spreading through the villages even before she was pregnant, but now it is confirmed—her breasts, the barely discernible swell of her belly beneath her skirt, her whole demeanor a bit more serene, as if smiling to herself just ever so slightly.
The evening light lingers a bit longer now, and during the day the sun eats at the ice, which softens towards afternoon, making runners sink deeper and sledges move more slowly. During the night it freezes hard, and in the morning the kicksleds run normally. But the sun gains a bit every day, and there is unease in the air. Far out in the sea there is open water, and you can come across seals behind piles of ice. Several hunting parties are on their way out with specially built rowboats on skids. In among the islands, especially where there’s a current, the ice has begun to bulge and turn blue. It’s only a matter of days before small children are forbidden to go out on it. Older, more sensible people go nowhere without an ice pike and a knife in their belt. It is hardest for Lydia Manström to say farewell to the ice, because she must be a role model for the schoolchildren, even though the ice could support her for several more days. Several weeks if the weather turns cold again. But maybe not. Now both the sun and the villagers are bending every effort to hasten the breakup of the ice. People put their shoulders to it and shove, and the ice shows wet patches and dark areas of rot. It is soft and treacherous, and beyond the lighthouses the seal hunters can hear the roar of the open sea. Rifts and fissures open up right under them, and those who aren’t light on their feet and can dance like a crane may easily fall in. That’s as it should be, and the man who takes sensible risks can collect a pile of bloodily slaughtered seals at the edge of the ice. The state pays a bounty for the jaw, the boatyards buy the oil, and you can cure the skins yourself and sell them in Åbo. You can make blood pudding and cook the meat. Those who’ve tasted it say that the meat of seal pups is a delicacy.
For several months, the pastor had his congregation together and available. Now the people he’s looking for are often away, unclear when they’ll be back. The boathouses are seething with activity although the smaller bays are still covered with ice. Tracks from the skids on rowboats lead out and back. For all that was going on in their winter world, it seems like a long sleep compared with the activity now. Everyone has woken up and stretched, and the pastor must learn that Easter is no big holiday on the Örlands. People are in too much of a hurry. The pastor’s wife has forced a crocus in a pot that stands blooming on the altar, the verger has changed the liturgical colours as prescribed, and the pastor stands almost alone in the church draped in mourning on Good Friday and not much less alone at High Mass on Easter Sunday as he proclaims the risen Christ. Christendom’s holiest observance and most joyful festival, he declares into the emptiness, to Mona and Sanna and Papa and Adele and Elis, the verger in his pew and the organist and the pumper in their loft. No less true for that, but it echoes balefully in the empty space.
At home they’ve made the traditional twigs-and-feathers, and Sanna has searched for and found her first Easter egg. It can be opened and is full of small candies. Seeing it is a reminder that the war is really over. Sanna learns to go around and offer candy to everyone else before taking any herself. She’s had a birthday and is now two years old, mature and verbal for her age, with an insatiable hunger for conversation and being read to. When Grandpa leaves in the spring and they themselves are fully occupied with their springtime labours, they plan to hire one of the confirmation-class girls to keep Sanna company.
Grandpa himself is into the starting blocks and listens constantly for signs of the ice breaking up. When there is open water, he can travel home and take care of himself for a good month before Mama arrives with all her possessions. The sun is right, the wind is right, he tells Sanna. Everything that gets the ice moving is good. And once it starts moving, it goes fast. Movement is good. Relocation. Life!
Chapter Fourteen
This is the time when the ice neither bears nor breaks. My mare has had a good rest for a week while I labour with the sledge. I set off very early in the morning when the ice is hardest, and there’s not much mail in my bag, thank goodness. If I keep up a good pace, I’ll get to Mellom before I start sinking into the ice too far.
You have to move fast so you don’t fall through in the worst places, but not so fast that you rush ahead like an angry bull without seeing where you’re headed. You have to pay constant attention to the look of
the ice ahead so you don’t go steaming into an area that you can’t get out of. The interesting thing about such ice is that even though you’ve made it far into a field of that kind, the ice won’t hold if you try to go back the same way.
You can’t ever turn and go back. That’s why it’s so important to have a clear picture of where you’re headed. Across Örland Sound I try to take a straight course, though it’s a strain if the wind pulls me to one side. Once you’ve come across and have the large islands in sight, you’ve covered the longest stretch, and then I usually go into the outermost farms where there are warm stoves and a cup of coffee and maybe a letter to put in my bag.
When you’re in a boat on open water, you’re over the worst once you get in among the islands, in the lea of the wind. But when you’re sledging bad ice, you have every reason to be careful. Because that’s where the currents run, and that’s where cracks open up in unexpected places. You don’t always see them, because the water flows and floods under a thin layer of ice, and if the sun is in your eyes you can’t always see the difference between those patches and bearing ice. At this time of the year, I always wear sealskin shoes, because I can feel through the soles how far under the surface the water is moving, so I know when to take care.
Ice Page 17