Everyone knew Josef. And Josef knew everyone.
As the winters went by, he became a regular participant in the annual so-called graybeard ski jumping meet at Buåsjordet, halfway between Brandsvoll and Breivoll. The meet was held in March, the snow was sticky, and most entrants were very mature men. Josef was helped with his skis, and then lifted into place in the tracks while two men held his arms.
“Are you ready, Josef?” came the shout from below.
“Josef is ready!” he shouted.
They let him go, and Josef whizzed down toward the end of the inrun. The tips of his skis trembled, people held their breath. Long before the end of the inrun Josef took off for a leap. He flew through the air like a strange bird, leaving his cap lying on the inrun, and at the end he landed smack on the outrun with his skis and poles in every direction.
That’s how it usually went.
However, one time a miracle occurred. It was a winter in the late fifties. Josef was placed in the ski tracks as usual, they let him go, he whooshed down, took off for the leap, flew through the air flapping his arms wildly. And landed on his feet. It was as if he didn’t really understand what had happened. His cap lay on the inrun, but he had landed on his feet, and he stayed upright all the way to the finish.
Afterward he was interviewed by Reinert Sløgedal, who was a reporter for the event. Josef’s jump was measured to be three meters and seventy-five centimeters, with the landing, and Sløgedal asked what had been the most difficult: the inrun, the flight, or the landing.
Josef considered the question for a moment, and then replied:
“The flight, of course. The flight.”
It must have been one of the great moments in his life. The time he landed on his feet, and then Sløgedal’s interview, which was printed afterward in the athletic club’s annual report. Later he would forget all the times he had fallen. Later it was only this one jump that counted.
He received a small cup as a prize, and when he came home he put it on the windowsill in his room. The cup must have been silver because it constantly turned black and had to be polished, but then it became so glossy you could see yourself in it. Josef always took the cup with him to church and to the store, and later he had it with him when he visited his sister in Tønsberg for summer vacation each year. After a while he just called it the wandering cup.
Yes, he had a sister in Tønsberg.
She had been essentially absent his whole life, until one summer day in 1968 Josef received a letter in the mail. That was very unusual. Papa came upstairs with the large, sealed envelope.
“Letter for Mr. Josef,” he said.
Josef stood up
“For me?” he said in surprise.
Papa handed him the envelope.
“This must be from the king!” Josef exclaimed, as he ripped open the seal.
It wasn’t from the king, but from his sister in Tønsberg. She wrote to tell him about a sum of money he should have received in 1936, the year their father died; at the time she had been in a difficult situation, however, and needed to borrow his part of the inheritance for a while. The years had gone by. More precisely, thirty-two years and four months, and now she was finally able to pay back the loan. Warm greetings. A check for eighteen hundred kroner enclosed.
After all, it had just been a loan.
Suddenly Josef was wealthy, like Ingrid and Lilly, but in contrast to them, he had no doubt about how the money should be used. One day he and Papa went to Kristiansand, where Josef bought a brand-new Telefunken television in a teak cabinet with sliding doors in front of the screen.
Every evening Josef opened the sliding doors, turned on the television set, waited until the picture appeared, then sat down on a chair in the middle of the room and watched programs until the broadcasts were over for the evening.
He had become rich, he had his own television set, the big, black-and-white world came right into his room, the wandering cup stood on the windowsill, he received good food, and had a warm bed. He had lost the Border Resident card with a broadly smiling picture of himself, but he could see his face and smile reflected in the wandering cup, just like in the medal for courage. He could hold up the cup with a big smile. His smile was slightly distorted in the silver.
Sometimes Lilly sat there with him. She heard when he opened the sliding doors and turned the knob. After a few minutes she came in quietly and sat down at the very edge of the bed, as if she were afraid she would be told to leave.
Perhaps it was sort of a love affair.
After all, they had gone to Lake Djupesland together once, but what happened there, nobody knew. Maybe he had touched her arm. Maybe a bird had been perched on the sandbar. In any case, she had started to scream.
A love affair perhaps, but if so, almost without a word, almost without exchanging a glance, perhaps also without touching.
They sat staring at the images that flickered across the screen and lit up their faces. Now and then Ingrid sat with them, quiet and shy, as if she too were afraid she would be told to leave.
Josef’s mustache twitched, and he cleared his throat as if he planned to say something—something definitive that he had thought about for a long time. A comment about what they saw. Or perhaps something he wanted to say to Lilly. But he only cleared his throat. He didn’t say anything. Perhaps it was Lilly he had seen under the midnight sun in Trondheim, perhaps she was the young bride. At long last they were reunited.
Their favorite program was Krutrøyk.
If there was a parliamentary election, they watched the election broadcasts in September. They watched the daily news each evening at seven-thirty, and usually children’s television at six too. Sometimes they laughed heartily. The laughter could be heard outside in the spring evening. If it could be called laughter. They saw when Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered in Memphis. They saw the first Soviet tanks roll through the streets of Prague. They saw Crown Prince Harald marry his Sonja Haraldsen in the Oslo Cathedral. They sat without moving and just watched. Without a word. They saw the newly married couple come out into the sunlight on the palace balcony and wave to the people.
7.
Time flowed on, in Josef’s life too, even though in a way he always stayed the same. He was somehow a child. His hair was white, as was his mustache. An old, very well-read child.
Just before Christmas in 1968, Apollo 8 circled the moon.
Another spring arrived, another summer, another fall.
The leaves loosened and fell from the ash tree, leaving the branches black against the sky.
On November 16, 1969, Josef turned seventy-seven.
November 21 was a Friday. Calm, mild late-autumn weather. After reading in his room the whole morning, Josef suddenly decided to take a walk to the rifle range in Hønemyr. It was about two kilometers, the same route I had taken back and forth to school. He met Mama on the stairs. They exchanged a few words about the weather, and he told her where he was going; then he put on his uniform jacket and a cap, and left. Out in the yard he met Papa. They also talked about the weather, and when Josef started down the road Papa stood on the front steps and watched him disappear around the bend.
He’s gotten old, Papa said to himself.
In all likelihood Josef walked all the way to the rifle range in Hønemyr. Maybe he sat down for a while in the pale November sunshine outside the shooting lodge before walking home. Maybe he thought about the midnight sun above Trondheim. Maybe he thought about his young bride waiting for him at home.
He was gone for a long time.
Around three o’clock, it started to get dark.
At first they thought he had gotten lost; that had happened before, after all. But this time he had said he would stay on the road, and then he always found his way home again, or somebody found him and telephoned. And that was exactly what happened. Papa was on his way out the door to look for him when the telephone rang in the front hall. It was Tilla Båsland. She said just two words: It’s Josef.
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sp; Tilla was busy preparing boiled potatoes when she happened to look out the window and saw a man squatting in the middle of the road. He sat like a Bedouin in the desert, perhaps twenty meters from the house. At first she was frightened. She went into her living room and looked out the window that faced east. Then she realized who it was. By the time she got outside, Josef had collapsed even further. He sat as if he had fallen straight down from heaven and landed in the middle of the road, and when she put a hand on his shoulder it was almost as if he were asleep.
Josef sat there in the twilight wrapped in a blanket when I drove up in my car. In the bright beam of the headlights I could see him clearly, but I don’t think he realized what was happening around him. I waited behind the wheel while Jon, Tilla, and Papa helped him into the backseat.
“I’m going to drive you home now, Josef,” I said over my shoulder.
But Josef did not reply. Papa got in next to Josef, and in the rearview mirror I saw Josef’s head flop down on Papa’s shoulder. I sped the few hundred meters back home and stopped outside the front door, where Mama stood waiting. Papa and I helped Josef inside. We realized what was happening. Lilly stood at the top of the stairs, and when she saw Josef she was terrified; she put her hands over her mouth, and ran back to be with Ingrid. We got to Josef’s room. Papa wanted to remove the uniform jacket, but Josef revived a little and refused to take off anything. His shoes were the only things we were allowed to touch, and then the whole world could see that he had forgotten to put on socks. He lay there barefoot in his uniform jacket while Mama telephoned the district doctor in Nodeland. I stood in his room, where I’d so often sat on the wood box with Ingrid, Erling, or Tone. This time I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there and watched as Josef became increasingly pale, his breath weaker. His hair was very white against the pillow, and his mustache looked like a rumpled feather that had landed just above his mouth. The wandering cup on the windowsill was bluish-black. It hadn’t been polished for a long time.
When Mama came up, he seemed to revive in spite of everything. He opened his eyes and looked at her.
“The doctor is on his way, Josef,” she said.
“Rosenvold?” Josef said.
“No,” said Mama. “There’s another doctor now.”
Josef asked to have an extra pillow behind his back, and as he sat there propped up in bed we heard his voice:
“Am I going to die now?”
I don’t know how Mama replied. I don’t know if she said anything at all, but I don’t think Josef meant it as a question.
“Can I have a hug, my dear little Karin?” he said. At first Mama just stood there. Then she leaned over and put her arms around him, and when she straightened up Uncle Josef was dead.
8.
Anna played for the funeral, as she had for Tone’s funeral, and for the Christmas concert. The first snow had fallen, and the woodstove with its long stovepipe had been exchanged for electric heaters that crackled under the pews. We were all there: Mama and Papa, Lilly and Ingrid, Astrid and I. Sverre, Erling, and Nils had come by train all the way from Naerbø.
The church was filled. Even the balconies.
Arne Nicolay Kvellestad officiated.
When Kvellestad talked about Josef’s life, at times the congregation broke into subdued, kindly laughter. He described the visit and guided tour the year before, and he told about Josef singing each year on his birthday, and how he had flown through the air at Buåsjordet, landed on his feet, and stayed upright all the way to the finish.
“This is the ski jump that will remain in our memories,” said Kvellestad.
Then he repeated what Josef had said in the interview with the reporter Sløgedal when asked what was most difficult—the inrun, the flight, or the landing.
“The flight,” Josef had said. “The flight.”
Afterward, when Anna played “Joyful, Joyful,” Papa bent forward. He rubbed his hands up and down his face as if he were trying to tear it off. Then he leaned his forehead against the pew in front of us, and for the first and last time in my life I saw him weep.
That was how Josef’s strange life ended. He had flapped through the air, but landed on his feet. He’d read world literature and attended church services. He had seen his reflection in the medal of courage, and later in the wandering cup.
I think that was enough.
What no one knew was that Josef would be buried next to Sheriff Kristen Lauvsland, who died only three weeks later, in mid-December 1969. For all eternity Josef would lie shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff himself. Not even in his dreams could he have imagined such an honor. Not in his wildest fantasies. That must have been the greatest reward and triumph that life—and finally death—could have given him.
9.
One summer day in 1973 Papa telephoned me to say he had terminated the caregiving agreement for Lilly and Ingrid. I don’t recall exactly what was said in our brief conversation, but he told me about the letter he had written to the Stavanger Social Services office, about Johannessen and Håberg’s visit, and about the answer he had received. I remember his voice. He sounded weary.
For now, only Ingrid would move to Naerlandsheimen; she had been given a place there, like her three brothers, but Lilly still had to live at home until a place was found for her too. Perhaps at Naerlandsheimen, perhaps at Bakkebø in Egersund. Perhaps somewhere else. One didn’t know.
The time had come for the move, and Papa wanted me to make the trip west with them. He thought that Ingrid might be difficult, and that I might somehow be able to convince her, or at least calm her down.
After all, at one time we were almost siblings.
I drove across the open countryside near Brandsvoll, turned right and crossed the Djupåna River, continued past Sløgedal’s home and up to the house at the edge of the woods. The calm, bright summer morning made me feel lighthearted; it was the kind of morning I had so often experienced as a child. It was cool in the shade of the ash tree. Papa stood there waiting for me.
We had agreed that Lilly would come along. We planned not to say anything until the actual time. We would all drive west, but only Ingrid would remain at Naerlandsheimen, although neither of the sisters knew that.
Papa strolled around the yard with his hands in his pockets as he whistled a tune with no beginning or end. Lilly stood with a suitcase on the top step outside; Ingrid came out behind her, shading her eyes from the sun.
“Well, well,” said Papa cheerfully. “So you’re all set.”
I took the suitcase and put it in the trunk. Mama went around checking that all the doors were closed and locked, while Lilly and Ingrid followed right behind her. The three of them left dark tracks in the dewy grass. Lilly wore a gray coat belted at the waist and a flowered shawl over her shoulders; the coat was so long that it got wet at the bottom.
Mama went up the hay barn bridge to make sure the door was locked properly, then Lilly went to check, and Ingrid did exactly the same. After that Mama checked to see that the cattle barn door was locked, and that the hook on the old outhouse was fastened properly. Lilly waited behind her, as if for her turn, and then she did the same thing.
“All locked,” said Lilly.
Mama put the house key under the doormat, and we were ready to leave.
At that point, Ingrid refused to get into the car.
Papa held the door open for her, but she just stood there and refused to budge. She howled softly, and as I sat behind the steering wheel I heard it was painful howling. I was afraid of what would happen if I turned around and looked at her. Maybe she sensed what was happening, maybe she’d had suspicions.
Finally, I got out of the car. Without hesitating for a moment, I went over to Ingrid and took her hand.
“Come, Ingrid,” I said. “Come, let’s take a little walk.”
So we walked around the house again. I took a chance, and had no idea what would happen. I led her through the warm morning sunshine and into the cool sh
ade behind the house. She no longer howled, she grew very calm; her hand was soft. We walked without saying a word. When we came back into the sunshine I saw our shadows, which had merged into one long black figure that glided across the grass beside us.
“One more time?” I asked.
She nodded.
After walking around the house again, I led Ingrid over to the car, and she sat down in the backseat next to Lilly as if nothing had happened.
Mama and Papa were already waiting in the car. I started the engine, and we drove past the hawthorn hedge, down the road to the milk platform and mailboxes; there the road curved left, I increased our speed, and we continued up a gentle slope. If Ingrid and Lilly had turned around at that moment they would have seen our house for the last time. We passed Sløgedal’s garden and, on the left-hand side, the new fire station surrounded by pine forest. Soon we crossed the Djupåna River, and at the crossroads I turned left again. It was the same route that Lilly and Ingrid took when they went to the store to buy Asina and Gjende shortbread. The walk home used to take just long enough for them to eat all the shortbread, but now they hardly had a chance to think before we were beyond the store. Besides, the store had been shut down and turned into a stable; the only thing unchanged was the elegant, but now disintegrating, balcony that hung out over the road. I remembered the day we arrived, over thirty years ago, when the bus stopped there and I dreamed of looking out from the balcony. I remembered how Papa stopped whistling when we approached our house for the first time.
Across the China Sea Page 17