Ice

by Ulla-lena Lundberg

  But the connection can’t help but inspire quite alien ideas. Pastor Kummel had promised to do everything in his power. Smiling, he spoke of the miracles that a man in his position could hope for. Every cell in her body tells her that Pastor Kummel went to the foot of the throne and offered his own life in exchange for her son’s.

  For much of her adult life, the resources have been so meagre and the need in some cases so pressing that it seemed to her more and more that there was a fixed, inadequate quantity of things in the world. If someone comes up in the world and basks in the sun a bit, then that well-being and sunshine are denied someone else. It’s the same way with things like joy and success. The sum total is paltry. If a little love and happiness come our way, someone else is deprived of them. Envy, which is such a stone in our path, derives from this insight, as does our reluctance to reveal our good fortune to others.

  She has now regained her son, while Mrs Kummel has lost her husband. The thought is childish and shameful, unworthy of a well-educated, rational adult. It’s a passing impression, the result of two shocks one right after the other. Of course that’s all it is, and she needs to remind herself of that fact forcefully. She must resist, establish some distance from the rational woman scientist who finds herself weeping by her teacup. Half the night before the funeral of Pastor Kummel, whose stiff, frozen, dead body she can picture all too clearly. She weeps, too, for the care and attention she knows this body is being shown, in contrast to the countless labour-camp prisoners, her husband perhaps one of them, whose bodies are disposed of like so much offal. And alongside them, her son, risen from the dead. Behind him and Pastor Kummel are millions of people born and died, without meaning, suffering unfathomable pain. How can the Christian church call its God good?

  She manages to prevent herself from falling on her knees and thanking God for her son’s rebirth and asking him to receive Petter Kummel’s soul. It’s a good thing that she doesn’t have to attend his funeral, she who in her present state would disgrace herself by weeping uncontrollably.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  BEFORE THE FUNERAL CAN BEGIN, they must pass all the stations of the cross—rising; washing quickly at the washstand; dressing, which is no small matter considering the cutting wind outside; making the beds; building a fire in the tile stove; carrying out the chamberpots; waiting in line for use of the outhouse; breakfast. Frightening to see Mona, white against black, utterly self-controlled. “Eat!” she commands. “It will be a while before we get anything else!” Sanna in a dress and a cardigan, quiet. Lillus in everyday clothes on Gramps’s arm. Unreal, the guests think as they eat their oatmeal. This is not happening. None of us are here.

  But here they sit, like terrified hares in the path of a harvester. Let it stop. Don’t let it come. But there’s a knock on the door, the proper front door, and it’s the organist and the verger who enter. Black suits, white scarves, white faces. “Good day to the house of mourning. We will bring in the coffin now. Maybe some of you would …?” Frej and Ragnar and Uncle Richard galvanized. “Yes, we’re coming.” Quickly into their outdoor wraps, stumbling out the door with unbuttoned coats, down to the boat shed. The verger has the carrying straps from the sacristy and says it might be a good idea to practise before people arrive. There are now four of them, counting the verger. There will be six at the actual burial, but that’s more for form’s sake than because it will be too heavy for four. It is an honour for representatives of the parish to be among the pallbearers.

  It appears that Frej, despite his youth, has the most experience carrying coffins. He organizes and instructs, excusing himself with “There were quite a few during the war.” He avoids the expression “wooden overcoat”. It’s good to have something to do at last. They walk in step, the coffin swinging slightly as they carry it up the incline. A pause in front of the tall steps, then all together, the organist behind to catch it if it starts sliding backwards. Into the parlour. The coffin placed on the trestles.

  Mona refuses permission to open the coffin. Petter’s relatives have to bend to her wishes, although they remember the opening of Göran’s coffin, the body already putrefying, and his mother’s relief that it was done. Now it’s Mona who is Petter’s next of kin, and she has declared that they will remember him alive, what lies in the coffin is only a body. They have to give in, but even around a closed coffin, they all fall apart. It is the last time the family will stand gathered around Petter. They’ve decided to sing “Into Thy Mercy, Gentle Lord”, but they are unable to bring it off. The organist gives them all a note in a strained voice but has to stop. They burst into tears at the very first words and, wailing, throw themselves down into any empty chair and sob in desperation. All except the dry-eyed Helléns, most notably the unconsolable widow.

  Almost a little disdainful, unseeing, she stands there avoiding them all, at a safe distance from anyone who might possibly try to embrace her. She holds Sanna by the hand, a slightly cold and sweaty hand. She is quiet, Sanna is quiet and good these days and all the following days, and Mona can take her along to church with confidence.

  Skog and Berg avoid looking at each other, but they do check their watches. The noise of motorboats can be heard in Church Bay, where the Coast Guard has broken up the ice. People are already walking past the house, glancing through the parsonage windows. The verger and the organist look at each other, the verger clears his throat at length, blows his nose in a large handkerchief. “I’ll go on ahead. Give me a signal when you’re ready to start.” On his way out, he runs into Elis Bergman and Brage Söderberg, who’ve been chosen to be pallbearers. They’re walking around wondering if they should go in. The verger waves them in. “Yes, at least into the hall. Skog will tell you what to do.”

  And sure enough, as Berg notes, Skog takes the first opportunity to give orders and take charge. As soon as he hears the newcomers in the hallway, he goes out and starts to confer in a loud whisper. “Yes, it’s almost time. I’ll get the family moving. Tactfully, of course. One needs to use psychology on these occasions.” Deliriously self-satisfied, he is convinced that nothing will happen unless he makes it happen. In fact, the organist is already talking to Frej, and the three pallbearers from the family move out to the hall to meet those from the Örlands. “We’ll take out the coffin now. We’ll manage. The steps are the worst. Careful you don’t slip in your leather shoes. The verger sanded, but it’s still treacherous.”

  There are teachers and office workers in the funeral procession, and even they are looking at their watches. Mona is helping Sanna into her coat and cap, then she reaches for her hat, her veil still thrown back, and puts on her own coat. “Now we can go,” she says, impatiently, in the direction of the parlour. And it’s suddenly crowded in the front hall, sweaters and coats and hats, five fluttering veils, burial wreaths in hands. “Do we have everything? Come, Sanna. I’ll hold your hand.”

  Sister Hanna watches them go with Lillus on her arm. Although everyone wants to attend the funeral, someone has to make the sacrifice and stay home with Lillus. Crying hard, she stretches out her arms towards them when she sees they’re leaving, but not even Sanna cares, they just close the door and disappear. Outside, Mona nods to the pallbearers and, solemnly, they take their place around the coffin. They give it a trial lift and look at each other—yes, we’re ready. The organist raises his hand towards the bell tower. The pallbearers start to move. The bell-tower bays are open, and the bells start to swing, the first stroke of the clapper against the side of the big bell muffled and stiff with cold. But then the speed picks up, both bells together, dark and light, the little bell scrambling above the weight of the big bell’s authority, together the preponderant bright tone that is the distinctive sound of Örland church. The people up on the crown of the hill stop to let the funeral procession pass, those in the churchyard turn their faces towards the parsonage, the first hats and caps come off.

  This is what they see: the coffin white, the mourners black, the little girl hidden behind the wrea
ths. A collective gesture as the women sweep their veils forward over the brims of their hats. The pallbearers coax the coffin down the steps and begin their steady pace. One more priest leaves the Örlands. The widow with her daughter, the parents, the siblings, the in-laws, Uncle Isidor. The organist wrings his hands to keep them warm enough to play. Nothing is spared them, every stone on the path, every grain of sand on the ice, every gust of wind, every freezing degree of chill, every peal of the bells, every second—they must suffer all of them, one by one.

  The gates to the churchyard stand open, but in keeping with local custom, the coffin is set down on the coffin stone outside. The bells go silent, the two visiting priests and the organist meet the procession. When everyone has gathered around the bier, they sing, with the courage of despair, “Into Thy Mercy, Gentle Lord”, and when the first verse is finished, the bells ring, the bearers lift the bier, and, singing, the people follow it across the churchyard and into the church.

  By local tradition, funerals are to be conducted at the grave, but on this occasion, because of the many speeches and the considerable crowd, and because the dead man so loved his church, they are adopting a more modern custom and holding the funeral inside the building. The first pews are reserved for the immediate family, but otherwise the church is full to capacity and well beyond, the pews crowded, people standing at the back and on the stairs to the loft. The whole parish is here, and they surge to their feet when the coffin enters, escorted by Berg and Skog. The relatives take their places, the organist pushes through the crowd to the organ. The pumper is ready, though the whoosh of air cannot be heard over the rustling down in the church. The organist put his icy hands on the keyboard, hesitates, strikes a chord. The verger in his place. Skog in command by the coffin.

  And now the congregation sings the way the dead man liked to hear them, for the last time, it seems to them. From deep down, broken by tears, but always some of them carrying the tune. They bray and drift, embroider and slip, fall behind or rush ahead, drag the organist with them, run out of breath on the high notes, gasp in unison for more, go silent when the words in the hymnal come to an end.

  Skog full of importance, Berg uneasy, unseeing, in the first pew. Skog in the pulpit. “The Lord makes no mistakes,” he proclaims, and Mona’s heart stops beating in her breast. “Does he not say himself that we do not comprehend what comes to pass, but that later we shall do so? When we stand face to face with the Divine. Here on earth, our life is divided. We belong to two kingdoms. A kingdom of sin and death. But we belong also to the kingdom of forgiveness and of life. Everything in life is marked by corruption. These walls are thick, but they will nevertheless decay and fall to pieces. All those who lie in their beds outside in the churchyard are dust. Human life is like a flower—it thrives in the morning and dies in the evening and our body is destroyed.

  “As I stand here and look at you, I know you all. But I also see that you have the mark of death in your faces. It is stamped on your features. But as the forces of decay do their work, it is good to remember what my successor has said to you from this very pulpit about the power of life and forgiveness. Now he is gone. He was taken from you just when everything seemed at its best. Weep! But not as they weep who have no hope, rather as they who have hope and know they will meet again on Judgment Day.”

  After Skog’s homily, the church choir sings “Nearer My God to Thee” from the loft. They’ve been deprived of their most beautiful soprano and their deepest bass, and in the course of the hymn some voices break off completely and are replaced by deep sobs. “Still all my song shall be” is dreadfully shrill, a harrowing depiction of the defencelessness of anyone who has no other hope but God’s uncertain mercy.

  For Fredrik Berg, it’s not as hard as expected to stand up and take his place beside the coffin with paper and prayer book in hand, look at Mona behind her black veil, Sanna a white smudge, and begin. “Anyone who ever met Petter Kummel will always remember the deep and powerful joy that he conveyed. He was open and accessible, and his piety was as honest as his firm handshake and as unaffected as his unpretentious simplicity. He loved his congregation and saw service to all of you as his mission in life.”

  Well on his way, his voice steady and clear, the acoustics superb despite the high humidity from the large gathering, he speaks about how much Petter would have liked to live with his family and in his parish, and he describes the night of the death struggle and the spring morning that dawned when the tragedy was complete. In the same way that Easter morning comes to us with its message of the resurrection after the dark night of Good Friday. His warmth and sincerity are no pretence as he turns towards Mona and Sanna and lets his eyes dwell briefly on the weeping parents and siblings.

  “Lift up your eyes and cry out to God—and God’s love, which passeth all understanding, will carry you in the eternal arms of the Father. Petter Kummel, whom we now consecrate to the peace of the grave, is also encompassed in God’s love.” An ancient ceremonial, words polished down to their absolute core. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Three handfuls of the thin, greyish soil of the Örlands form a cross on the coffin’s white covering. A hesitant hymn: “Our Years, They Flee Away”.

  Silence in the church. Mona rises, folds her veil back over her hat, takes Sanna by the hand, the wreath in the other, walks forward on steady legs, looks out over the congregation and speaks, while the whole church holds it breath. The child stands quietly by her side. She thanks them for the good years she and Petter had in Örland parish. She thanks Petter for the happy years granted her. She remembers his words to the grieving parents of the child they buried only one week ago. They were his words of farewell to her as well, though she did not understand it at the time. She lays the wreath on the coffin, adjusts it a little—good. Takes Sanna by the hand and returns to her pew. The church breathes out.

  Then the parents and siblings, shaky and uncertain, broken voices, deep breathing. They are followed by other friends and relatives, and Uncle Isidor speaks for the entire family. “Petter Kummel followed his calling without expectation of success,” he begins, in an old man’s quavering voice, then takes heart and continues. “But success came. Those who heard him were open to his simple but profound message. Almost unnoticeably, all eyes turned to him. His naturally unassuming character and his honesty in both word and deed drew people to him. He struggled with his own sins as much as he did with those of his fellow men. On his travels, he faced storms and heavy seas without fear, but he trembled like a child before the sin and the temptations that carry many a priest to his spiritual grave. Yet that struggle ended in victory. During his years as a spiritual guide, the young priest grew more and more intimate with the power that flows from the gospel of the crucified Christ.

  “My dear nephew, whom we miss so much,” he went on, a little less firmly, with many pauses. “You have accepted the call to service in a new temple and need no longer tremble in the face of strong waves of temptation. The sea and its perils will not confront you there.” He is unable to continue and gropes his way back to his seat.

  Adele Bergman, deep in grief, hears the organist walk past her down the middle aisle. He is to speak on behalf of the parish and the vestry, but how will he manage, emotional as he is, and devastated by this death?

  The vestry’s large wreath in front of him, unembarrassed by his tears, his speech in his breast pocket. Amazingly collected. “Dear Petter, our good friend and spiritual guide. Last Sunday when you laid to rest a little songbird from the east villages, you carried us metaphorically into God’s heaven on a bridge of light. When you headed home that evening, little did you dream that you yourself were stepping onto the bridge of light you had described. You have left us and entered God’s heaven. Your importance for the spiritual life of this community extends far beyond the few invaluable years we had you here. Now as we look forward, we pray, dear heavenly Father, give
us again a shepherd who understands us.”

  His wreath placed, the local council next. Sörling and Fridolf, sombre, bow towards the coffin and the family. Berg and Skog come forward with the wreath from his clerical colleagues, Adele Bergman, weak with tears, lays the wreath from the Health Care Centre. Sörling reads the council’s memorial and a special message from Doctor Gyllen. Then he reads a mass of condolences and memorials from a great many people who’ve been touched in some way by Petter’s life and death, foremost among them the bishop and the assessor.

  In conclusion, with fearless courage and one hand on the keyboard, the organist sings “A Precious Thing to Thank the Lord”, all the way, across a bridge of light, safely ashore.

  And then, no turning back. The church goes silent. No voices, only the rustle of people who have been crowded together too long and need to stretch. A pause, and the pallbearers step forward, raise the straps to their shoulders. Now. Berg and Skog start walking, the coffin follows, then the immediate family from their pews and then the congregation, row by row.

  Digging the grave was no easy task, they can be grateful that the ground wasn’t frozen all the way down. It turns its dark maw towards the procession with its defenceless casket. For the Örlanders, the climax of the funeral is the moment when the coffin is surrendered to the earth. There is then no longer any need for self-control, they weep, they cry out, they kneel and stagger, grief, at this moment, need know no bounds.

  All through the long funeral service they have stared at Mona Kummel’s veiled head and shoulders. No trembling, no bowing of the head, no leaning to the right or the left to get support from mother or mother-in-law. She sits with Sanna beside her as if they were alone in the world, condemned to endure and survive. Ever since the death, the widow’s unnatural self-control has been a source of collective concern on the Örlands. Everyone knows that open mourning is a good thing, everyone hopes that something will call forth the sobbing that wholesome grief requires.