Ice

by Ulla-lena Lundberg

  “Now tell me what happened in Borgå. I’ve been really anxious. You did pass didn’t you, after all your studying?”

  “Oh yes. Approved, but not with honours. It’s really embarrassing that I did so poorly even when it came to questions where I was on home ground, what should have been like mother’s milk to me.” When he says ‘mother’s’, he gives a little grimace of pain, which she picks up at once.

  “Don’t tell me your mother has anything to do with this!”

  “You read my mind. Yes. I don’t know where to start. You remember Hilda?”

  Dear God, of course she remembers Hilda. Their marriage was preceded by detailed confessions. No sin was left untouched. Hilda was the greatest. Hilda was also the sin he’d wanted to confess to everyone in the perfervid atmosphere of a Moral Re-Armament meeting. Hilda is the person Mona hates most in the world. Her pulse quickens. She gets red spots on her neck and the tip of her nose turns white. She would like to scratch the woman’s eyes out. “What does Hilda have to do with your pastoral exam?”

  “Mama had written to tell her I was going to be in Borgå. She came to the hotel. Completely hysterical. Her husband had left her and she had to talk to someone. I reminded her of my examination but there was no stopping her. It was like I’d been drugged. You can imagine what I was feeling. As a priest, it was my duty to listen. No priest can refuse a human being in spiritual need. You can imagine the horrible conflict I felt. Privately, I was in despair. Time was passing. As she talked, I developed a terrible headache. Then I couldn’t get to sleep.”

  “She was in your room?” He nods. “Dear God.”

  “Yes, it was awkward. It was ghastly.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “Twelve–thirty! What’s wrong with you? You know what a slut she is, and you let her destroy your peace of mind and your future career? It’s one thing to talk to her for an hour and send her on her way, it’s another thing altogether to let her sit there—what was it? Over four hours!—and let her sabotage your prospects. And what do you think people thought!”

  “She was desperate.”

  “And what about you?”

  “In such a situation, a priest isn’t supposed to think about himself.”

  “You really believe she came to you for spiritual counselling? From you?”

  “It’s not an either or. It’s a matter of both and. She came because it was me. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t also miserable and desperate. That’s what I had to keep telling myself.”

  “And comfort her? Are you out of your senses? I can just imagine the kind of comfort she had in mind. You must have known that yourself.”

  “When you put it that way, yes. But I was so intensely uncomfortable that I couldn’t imagine that she … Ugh!”

  “Did she try?”

  “In words maybe. I changed the subject to Jesus.” He gives her a crooked smile. She doesn’t smile back.

  “The fact is that you allowed her to destroy your examination. What kind of Jesus complex do you suffer from? Although not even Jesus … There are lots of examples of him going out into the desert because he couldn’t deal with people any more. Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

  She stands up vehemently and begins pacing back and forth. Mona at her most unreasonable. Mona when she is most like her temperamental father, who can pace about in a rage for several hours amidst a torrent of words. The whole household cowers and keeps its mouth shut, and now Petter stays silent and draws his head down between his shoulders. It’s not his fault that Hilda appeared at the hotel. Even if he had shown her the door, she would have ruined his night’s sleep. There is no possible defence, because Petter owed it to his wife to throw out the baggage that has caused so much unhappiness!

  Quite right, but he was so flustered, he was virtually paralysed.

  Rubbish! For a year and a half, she’s walked on eggshells because of his pastoral exam, and then he throws it away in a single evening, one night, with a trollop who had led him astray once already. Doesn’t he ever learn? Is he a complete idiot? A total milksop?

  While she rants, she starts working in the kitchen, refusing to let her indignation interfere with the efficient performance of her duties. Food is scrubbed, peeled, sliced, shredded, and mashed while she scolds him. He just sits there, unproductive in his stupidity and lack of enterprise, a sheep rather than the shepherd he had meant to become.

  An oppressive afternoon, which he spends as a refugee in his study, with his letters and newspapers. At some point, he must also concoct a sermon for Sunday, which under the present circumstances he needs to manage discreetly and without complaint. Now that he’s free of his studies, he has also promised to spend more time with Sanna. She stands looking at him from the door. “Come,” he says. “I’ve been so sad without you.”

  At the supper table, she puts his plate down hard. “I was mad because I missed you so. I could hardly wait for you to come home. And then all this. As if you hadn’t learned a thing. It’s almost enough to make me lose my mind. And of course I’m maddest of all because it was so unpleasant for you. I should have gone with you, but how would that have looked, with a two-month-old baby? Then it would have been my fault that you couldn’t sleep! And anyway at your age you ought to be able to take care of yourself!”

  She’s well on her way to starting again, and Sanna sits in her chair stiff with fear. But she stops talking, sits down, and bursts into tears, and Petter is no longer a failed clergyman but a husband, who finally knows how to use the beautiful voice he’s been given, the unshaven cheek that he can press against hers. A warm breast and good, knowing hands.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A TERRIBLE STORM ON CHRISTMAS EVE. If it keeps up, there won’t be a soul at the early service Christmas morning. It’s not a problem of thin ice, because the ice hasn’t set yet, only made small attempts in the bays, where snow and ice trim the beaches while the open sea rolls free. Now full storm, squealing, wailing wind, and dark as a coal cellar by three in the afternoon. It rains as if the sea lay not only around the Örlands but also above it, pouring its water over them in great cascades. In the worst gusts, the beacon light is invisible, and the whole world is drowned by the merciless waves.

  “For those in peril on the sea,” the pastor prays. “And keep the parsonage afloat, too,” he adds, more or less as a joke. For the rain forces its way in where the window frames are in poor condition, and the foam from the wave tops is thrown against the glass like snow. The wind howls through the house and drives the smoke down the chimney. Open doors slam shut, the boards creak in the walls, the rag rugs meander across the floor. It’s impossible to get the Christmas prayer on the radio, which just crackles and stutters in Russian and Finnish.

  The pastor understands better than he did last year why Christmas prayers are not held on the Örlands. At this time of year, it’s enough that the congregation comes to the Christmas morning service. Earlier, when the weather was nice, he thought they might hold private Christmas prayers in the church, just the four of them, but now he’s lost the desire. It’s bad enough that Mona has to go out to the cow barn in this storm. They don’t really know how much of a fire they dare have in the tile stoves, and the kitchen range spits out smoke and sparks through the burner rings in the worst gusts of wind, so someone, he, must be both babysitter and fire warden. He lights the hurricane lamp, checks that it’s filled with lamp oil. Mona bundles up, they joke about her getting lost on the prairie. “Aim for the light in the window!” he calls farewell as the door closes.

  The cow barn is more protected than the parsonage, lower and sheltered by hillocks. It’s still cold inside, and even though Apple and Goody stand there like a couple of stoves their breath is visible. The calves are freezing in their pen, pressed up against each other. The sheep are in their winter coats and doing fine. All of them turn to look at the hurricane lantern and greet her the way they always do, bleating, bellowing, tossing
their heads.

  Mona is completely at ease in the cow barn. Completely natural. She enjoys herself here in a different way from up at the house with the children whining, Petter on the phone, a thousand tasks waiting to be done, everything she hasn’t had time for like a noose around her neck, keeping her from breathing freely. Here things are simple—mucking out, providing hay and water, washing and lubricating udders, milking, straining, hooking the milk cans to the yoke—Merry Christmas and good night. Those who bleat and bellow never say too much, hurt no one’s feelings, avoid irony, do not philosophize, never quibble. No hidden meanings, no complications. There’s heat and cold, hunger and satisfied hunger, waiting and arrival, peaceful darkness until dawn. It is her repose, although many think the work is hard. She is happy to spend time here, and now that it’s Christmas she talks a bit more, pats and scratches a little longer, is a little more generous with the hay, pours out some oats from the sack special-ordered from the Co-op. The milk is warm and frothy, creamy and nutritious. Peace.

  In the cow barn it seems like the wind has died down a little, but when she steps outside, it tears at her hard. If the milk pails weren’t so heavy, she’d fall down. The rain pounds on her like surf, she loses her breath, thinks that out here on the Örlands you can drown on dry land. Makes her way up the steps, which are shiny in the light of her lantern. Pulls open the swollen door, Petter comes to her at once. “How did it go? I was afraid you’d blow away!” He takes the milk cans, the sieve, helps her out of her outdoor clothes. In this weather, they wash the milk cans in the kitchen. No problem cooling the milk today.

  They are all bundled up to the teeth, Lillus in her sleeping bag with a cap on her head, Sanna in wool from head to toe, parents wearing all the wool clothes they own, Papa with earmuffs on his sensitive ears, Mama with a large woollen scarf around her head, everyone with layers of warm socks on their feet, the whole family a hymn of praise to the native Finnish sheep. Brrr! And the temperature hasn’t yet fallen below freezing!

  But this is Christmas Eve, and now the Christmas supper is put on the table—lutfisk with white sauce, potatoes, a Christmas ham straight from the oven, stewed peas and carrots, Christmas cakes and coffee for dessert. The Christmas candles flutter and drop wax on the Christmas runner. Sanna is exhausted from waiting, and whines and complains. Lillus is screaming in sympathy. It’s enough to take the joy out of being parents, but they make an effort and group themselves around the tile stove in the parlour, very carefully light the candles on their Christmas juniper but have to put them out again, to Sanna’s intense disappointment, because otherwise the draughts will ignite the whole tree.

  In the terrible storm, they can’t hear if Santa has come, but Papa goes out to the back hall to have a look. The verger has explained to them that the Örland Santa is a little shy and doesn’t like to come into the house but leaves the presents just inside the door instead. Sanna is afraid he won’t come because it’s blowing so hard, but Papa has heard that he came with Post-Anton two days before Christmas, so it can’t hurt to have a look. And, glory be, it turns out he has snuck in and left a whole pile of Christmas presents in the firewood box!

  Oh. But first we need to think about why we get Christmas presents this evening. Well, it’s because the baby Jesus was born this very evening. It’s in memory of his birthday that we receive our own presents. And that’s why the Christmas gospel is read in every home in Christendom this night. So Papa opens the Bible and reads a long story, and even though Sanna loves stories, she gets bored. She twists and slides back and forth in her chair and scratches her itchy wool socks and, finally, bursts into tears. Not exactly the way her parents had pictured this Christmas Eve, which had less squealing and commotion and lacked the nervousness they’re all feeling because of the storm and the danger of fire on a night like this. But they must celebrate Christmas, so Papa closes the Bible and takes Sanna on his lap, and Mama carries in the basket of presents. Red sealing wax and string, it’s a shame to unwrap such pretty packages! First of all, there are books, mostly for Papa but also for Mama and three story books for Sanna! In addition, socks and mittens and a Santa for Sanna and a Christmas angel for Lillus, who immediately stuffs it in her mouth like a cannibal. And still more—marzipan pigs and a box of homemade toffee for everyone. In a bowl on the table are all the Christmas cards Post-Anton brought, along with Christmas magazines to read over the holidays. It’s overwhelming, and Sanna gets sick to her stomach and throws up on the rug before she’s even had a piece of toffee. Sanna! My goodness, as if all the Christmas cleaning wasn’t enough to deal with, now this! Don’t cry, Sanna, Papa knows you’ve got a delicate stomach and you didn’t throw up on purpose.

  Whew! When they’ve finally got the girls into bed and might have a little quiet time, just the two of them, there is no peace. They make their rounds and check the tile stoves and the kitchen range, where they now let the fire go out, and Petter says that if he had a slightly more active imagination, he could easily believe he heard calls for help from a shipwreck among all the sound effects produced by the storm. He wanders from window to window and laughs at himself a little. “Soon I’ll be just like Papa in a storm, nervous and confused. For that matter, I’ll bet they haven’t gone to bed yet. Shall I call and thank them for the Christmas presents and get that out of the way?”

  His poor mother is celebrating her first Christmas on Åland, resigned and teary-eyed when she thinks about earlier Christmases on the mainland, surrounded by her children and happily anticipating the many Christmas parties given by her relatives and friends. Never been a storm like the one raging across even the large island of Åland this night. Papa will be no comfort, running around the house groaning like a wraith. The least Petter can do is call and talk to her cheerfully and supportively, but when he cranks the phone, with an apology already on his lips for interrupting the operator’s own Christmas celebration, there is no response. He cranks and cranks and waits and tries again, but realizes at last that the storm has blown down the lines somewhere and that they won’t be able to call out until after New Year’s. Poor Mama, who has undoubtedly been counting on a chat.

  There isn’t much more they can do except make another circuit to check for fire and see that the girls are firmly anchored under their quilts but have their noses free. The door to the parlour is closed, and the tile stove keeps it warm into the wee hours, but it’s still cold! At last they lie in their own beds, talk a little about the weather and how the excitement was too much for Sanna and wonder if a living soul will come to Christmas morning service. “The one day of the year when the sermon comes easily!” Petter says, disappointed in advance. They doze off but sleep lightly and wake up again. Remarkable, the pastor thinks, how uneasy you can be in a storm even though you’re safe and secure on land with your whole family gathered around you. What must it have been like for the holy family without a roof over their heads that fateful night?

  There is a lot of nasty creaking and crackling in the house, and at two o’clock he’s up again with his flashlight in hand, checking the stoves and opening the door to the icy attic stairs, listening and sniffing, but there is nothing to suggest that the stove chimney has cracked or that sparks are smouldering in the insulation. There is still some warmth on the ground floor and all is well. Remarkable that he can nevertheless feel such disquiet, anguish almost. It has stopped raining, and the beacon blinks reassuringly, the storm gusts are not as strong as they were earlier. The storm is putting itself to bed, so you can too! he scolds himself. He finds his way back to his bed where there is still a little nest of warmth.

  “What’s wrong?” Mona mumbles.

  “Nothing,” he answers. “Everything’s fine. Sorry I woke you.” He sleeps again a little, and when he finally sleeps deeply, the alarm clock goes off. He jumps up as if it were an air raid warning, but sinks back down when he realizes where he is. Still pitch-black, but he smells Mona’s good scent as she gets out of bed. He hears the rasp of the match on the matchbox
and then she lights the lamp. They listen—complete quiet. When she gets to the kitchen, Mona suddenly screams and Petter rushes out to her with his trousers at half-mast. It’s nothing. For an instant she thought that the church was in flames, but there is a light in the sacristy window simply because the verger is there to build a fire in the boiler, which is one of his duties.

  At least someone believes there will be a Christmas morning service. They’ve thought about how they’ll do this. The simplest would be for Mona to stay at home and fire up the stoves and make breakfast, but Christmas morning is one of the high points of the church year. It’s not a long service, so they’ll have time to build fires and have breakfast at almost the normal time when they get back. Now they have just a cup of last night’s coffee from the Thermos and a quick sandwich. Then Petter goes off to the church while Mona dresses Sanna and Lillus and follows after.

  The verger meets him at the church door, expecting praise and getting it, profusely. The bulging radiators in the church are banging away, and the church is getting warm. With every minute that passes, the air is a little less raw. “My dear fellow,” says the pastor, “what time did you get here?” “Four o’clock,” says the verger proudly. This is his big night of the year, when he overcomes his fear of the dark and can calmly proclaim that the dead do not celebrate Christmas Mass at midnight, at least not in Örland church. The pastor reports that he himself was up at two o’clock and the storm was still raging. Then it calmed quickly. “But my goodness the size of those seas!” “Yes, it takes a time for the surf to settle.” They talk quietly as they prepare the church. They had the candles ready back at the beginning of Advent, and two potted tulips stand on the altar. The verger has posted the first hymns on the number board. Now they light all the candles, on the chandeliers, on the altar, on the pulpit. The church is to shine like a lantern as the congregation approaches. While they’re at it, the organist comes running in and takes the pastor by the arm.