Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “You will share the water closet and bathing facilities down the hall with a dozen other first year students,” she said. “Cleanliness is of utmost importance. That and punctuality. Breakfast is at 6:00 a.m. Classes begin at 7:00 a.m. Do not be late.”

  “Thank you,” we chorused, still holding our duffels.

  “I assume you are both Lutheran?” She did not wait for a reply. “Your church is a few blocks from here. Tomorrow is Sunday, your only free day. I expect you will make good use of your spare time. We have a list of volunteer work and I am confident you will find something to your liking. Any questions?”

  We shook our heads.

  “You know where to find me if you do,” she said. “Good night.”

  We stood in silence, listening to her heavy heels marching down the hall, thinking exactly the same thing. When our eyes met, I reached out to turn the light off, plunging the room in darkness. Then I turned it on again.

  Electric power. Mother had described the wonder of it after her stay with the Burroughs, but this was so magical it was beyond imagination.

  I awoke early the next morning and, while Thora slept, finished writing the letter I’d started the day before Petra came into the post office:

  September 22, 1914

  Dearest Finn,

  It has been just over month and already I miss you terribly. I am so very proud of you even though I understand little about this war.

  Have you seen Jack? And the Larson boys? They enlisted days after you. I hope that the army is sensible enough to put the four of you in the same unit. You can look out for one another that way. From what I hear, the Germans are heartless. Do your best to stay away from them. Do not be afraid to use your gun and run if you have to.

  The store is busy today, but I’ve stolen a few minutes to write. Björn thinks that Bensi will leave Siglunes since he has not yet ordered lumber to rebuild.

  October 3, 1914

  I am sorry it has taken me so long to finish this letter. Once I explain, I think you will understand why. I have news that I believe will please you. Thora and I are in Winnipeg, about to start our training. It was a last minute decision. We arrived in the city last night and it is everything you described. I am especially thrilled with the electric power. I am writing from my bed as there is a lamp over it that turns on and off with a switch. What a luxury.

  Today we will explore the city. It is a good thing I am here. Thora would not have managed very well on her own.

  That is all for now. I will write again once classes have started. Make note of the hospital’s address as I have written it on the envelope.

  Lovingly yours, Ástfriður.

  P.S. Did you know that they call us ‘Goolies’ here in Winnipeg? What in God’s name does it mean?

  The niggling feeling that I was about to embark on the impossible crept in that morning. Thora and I stood on the street corner after breakfast, deciding which way to go. She had no idea what I was looking for and I was at a loss where to find it.

  “We should go to the church,” I said.

  A nurse came down the steps and pointed us in the direction. “At the corner, on Victor Street.”

  It was a beautiful, crisp morning. Everything was covered in frost, already melting in places where the sun shone brightly. I was excited by the possibility that Freyja was somewhere here. It was a reflex to search every face that passed, peer around every corner and look through every door.

  We spent the entire day walking. We stopped briefly at the church, made mental notes of the landmarks, street names, and even handed the streetcar driver a few coins, then rode it as far as it would take us and back again. The smell of fried meat and onions lured us into a little café on Main Street, and we nervously ordered from a printed menu for the first time.

  “It’s so noisy,” Thora said, over the sound of dishes being stacked in the kitchen. The roar of passing motorcars rushed in every time the door opened. And voices, so many voices, as pedestrians greeted one another on the street. Trains whistled, and each time one passed, the café floor rumbled.

  What I also noticed were the smells. Coal and oil, damp dirt, the faint whiff of sewage—all layered to create a scent so different than home. In the years to come, that is what I would miss most about Siglunes, the pure air and, of course, the water—both would remain untouched by civilization for the rest of our lives.

  “We should go visit Elizabeth,” I said, grabbing Thora by the hand. Mother had told me the address and how to get there. We hurried across the street between passing motorcars. A man waved at us cheerily, as did a fellow driving a democrat. We followed the streets that wound along the river, then paused for a few moments to regain our bearings.

  “Armstrong Point?” I asked a man who came toward us. “Can you tell us where it is?”

  He pointed and we hurried in that direction, passing by homes that became increasingly stately the farther we walked down a street called Middle Gate. It was unbelievable to see so many homes that were more beautiful than the castle at Siglunes. These mansions were numbered sequentially and after only a few blocks we were there.

  We hesitated at the end of the long drive, a lovely elm blocking our view of the brick house set a distance away from the street, backing quietly, as Mother had described, onto the river. It had a most unusual roof.

  “What should we say?” Thora asked.

  Now was the time to be bold. I took the lead up the verandah steps. A woman wearing a crisp white apron answered the door. She invited us in. Off to the left, women’s voices could be heard. Elizabeth appeared a few moments later holding a note pad and pen. She caught her breath at the sight of us.

  “Thora . . . Ass-ta,” she said, perplexed. Then she relaxed and hurried over to where we stood, embracing us. “It is so nice to see you again. What a pleasant surprise.”

  I explained that we were there to take our nurses’ training.

  “You are most welcome to join us,” she said, inviting us into the parlor.

  It wasn’t until years later that I realized some of the city’s most influential women were gathered there that afternoon—all members of the International Order of Daughters of the Empire. The women paused as we came in.

  “Everyone, let me introduce Ass-ta Good-munds-son and Thora Krist-jans-son,” she said, mispronouncing badly. “They are from Sig-loons way up north in the wilderness.”

  As she began introducing each woman, I tried my best to meet their gaze while Thora tucked herself behind my shoulder. The only name I recognized was Joanna Skaptasson, an Icelander to whom I felt an instant connection. My cheeks burned when Elizabeth told them about Freyja’s disappearance.

  “Has she been found yet?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, wishing I had the courage to look somewhere other than the floor.

  “Pity.” She tutted. “A delightful girl she was.”

  Elizabeth invited us to sit down. The maid offered cups of strong tea and tiny sandwiches arranged neatly on china plates.

  “Jo-anna has agreed to lead an IODE chapter for the Icelandic women in Manitoba,” Elizabeth said proudly. “Perhaps you might like to join?”

  We agreed immediately though we had little understanding of what the IODE did or what would be expected of us. Joanna was between Mother and Amma in age. She listened patiently like Gudrun and had Bergthora’s fiery efficiency. As the room buzzed around her, she committed to memory her assigned duties. Then she looked across the room at me. Not a word was said, but I sensed I’d found my first ally.

  The meeting continued and, by the time it was done, I knew that the women were mobilizing volunteers to knit sweaters, socks and mittens, gather newspapers and periodicals, request donations of cigarettes and other comfort items, that all would be packaged then sent to our troops overseas. They also discussed efforts to provide financial relief to the soldiers�
�� wives and children here at home.

  Elizabeth’s enthusiasm grew along with her list. She was IODE President so it was her duty to motivate these women and motivate them she would.

  “Did you enjoy that as much as I?” Thora asked, breathless, as we ran up the dormitory steps. We watched as the jitney carrying Joanna—a private car that darted passengers through the city for a small fee—zoomed out of sight. She had offered us a ride saying it wasn’t far out of her way.

  “I sure did,” I said. “Leifur would have loved it.”

  Monday morning the Superintendent stood watching as Thora and I, in a long line of girls, filed into the dining room. Fifty of us would start training but only three quarters would finish.

  The cook spooned food onto our plates as we ‘queued up.’ Such a novel thing it was for Thora and I to eat somewhere other than home. The eggs, cured pork, boiled oats, and toasted bread were very good. It was so long since I had tasted an apple that I risked a slap on the hand by taking two.

  The Superintendent spoke as we ate, explaining the routine: Twelve hour days in the hospital, evening lectures, rotational cleaning duties, laundry. She circled the room, placing a handbook on the table beside each of us. We were told to have it memorized by the end of the day.

  We stood in another queue after that, to a room filled with supplies that smelled of used books and starched cotton. The prospect of all the learning I was about to experience was intoxicating.

  “You take after your father’s side of the family,” the matron stated, sizing me up. “The taller girls often do. You may need to let down the hem.” I took the stack of folded uniforms, aprons, sleeves, caps, collars, and underclothes up to my room. We would return later for our textbooks and a pair each of high-backed shoes.

  We assembled again and were told that our probationary period would last two months. If we performed satisfactorily we would become Junior nurses. It was at that point, and not before, we’d be allowed to start wearing our caps and sleeves.

  Everyone listened quietly. Even the girls who giggled in small clannish groups flinched at Miss Gray’s words. If she noticed she did not let on. Then we were dismissed.

  “And—” she called out, over the scraping of fifty chairs all pushing back across the floor at once, “first year nursing students may not leave the hospital grounds without permission. Doing so will result in disciplinary action or immediate expulsion.”

  October 5, 1914

  Dear Björn,

  We arrived in Winnipeg safely. I am thrilled to say we have electric power in our rooms so I can write and study into the night as long as I want.

  We received our uniforms and books this morning but were warned this is not a profession for the faint of heart. I fear nursing school will be more difficult than I expected. Many nurses left for overseas, so there is a shortage at the hospital. I worry the next two months will leave me little time to find Freyja. But I have good news to report. I met a woman who has offered help. Her name is Jóanna Skaptasson. I confided in her about my search for Freyja and she will ask if anyone in the Icelandic community here has seen her. At least it is a start. Otherwise I am at a loss where to begin.

  How is Amma? I hope that she does not drive the nurse mad with her screeching. I hope Bergthora is feeling better and that your father is well.

  Any letters that come to the post office for me should be re-directed here.

  When you see Mother will you tell her about Jóanna? Hopefully soon I will find Freyja and everyone will rejoice.

  Wish me good luck, Ástfriður

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Many a trifle happens at eve.

  —Grettir’s Saga

  The next two months were a complete blur.

  Nurses were expected to keep a frantic pace. It reminded me of farming. The girls unaccustomed to physical work struggled. Since Thora and I had never experienced an active social life we didn’t miss dating and going to picture shows. Some of the second and third year nurses knew how to sneak out at night to see their beaus. Under no circumstances were any of us to say a word. Those experienced students could make our lives miserable if they chose.

  Our day looked something like this:

  After breakfast, we spent the morning on the wards following graduate nurses who taught us general patient care. After dinner, two hours were spent in the classroom learning bacteriology, sterilization, microscopy, hygiene, anatomy, and dietetics. Then we returned to the wards until 7:00 p.m., at which time the daytime nurses were replaced by the evening shift while we ate supper. Three times a week we attended evening lectures by staff doctors that lasted until 10:00 p.m.

  On alternate nights it was mandatory that we read and study. Once that was done, we had to fulfill our volunteer obligations. Those in their second and third years spent evenings at a nearby nursing mission or with the social services department. Everyone was expected to contribute to the war effort, so Thora and I chose to knit. We even taught other girls how to make socks and mitts. This pleased Superintendent Gray, since she was a woman whose hands were never idle.

  Often our schedule would change without warning. The hospital would suddenly overflow with new patients, victims of the latest outbreak or epidemic, and our classes were abruptly postponed. We would work late into the night, with barely the chance to wolf down a sandwich, grabbed while hurrying from one ward to the next.

  Every young woman caused me to look twice. I am sure the patients thought me strange, especially the pale ones with their blankets pulled up. More than once my heart nearly stopped when I saw a girl I thought was Freyja, only to be disappointed when she turned to face me.

  It felt like years since I’d seen her. At night I was gripped with a terrible fear that someday I might pass her on the street or that she might be sitting at the back of a trolley but I wouldn’t see her. Had she stood in that same spot I was standing? Was she around the next corner? What if too many years passed and we would not recognize each other at all?

  That fear gripped me more than anything, more than contracting consumption from a patient or failing my exams. Not finding Freyja worried me even more than Finn not coming home. Freyja was alive and it was my responsibility to find her.

  “She is here somewhere, I can feel it,” I said boldly to Joanna as we sat together at church. Six weeks had passed and so far nothing indicated I might be correct.

  Finally, I received two letters from Finn. The first must have been lost for a while:

  September 15, 1914

  My dearest Ásta,

  I miss you terribly but if I am to function properly as a soldier I must put my longing for you aside to concentrate on my training.

  I haven’t yet received a letter from you and this concerns me greatly. I can only hope that you still care for me, so I shall continue writing until I hear otherwise. They warned me that the mail is slow.

  Our regiment left Winnipeg and now we are in a training camp in Valcartier, Quebec. We came by train, thousands of us, and it was confusing. The army has reinstated many officers who served in the Boer War so it didn’t take long and we were organized. I am now acquainted with a fellow named George McDonald, a Mohawk from Quebec whose demeanor is much like the Indians at home. I wish that I had received French language training while at the University as there is much I want to say to him. I have taught him some Icelandic and he is teaching me French. I had to show him Iceland on a map. Most men here have never heard of our homeland.

  Many carry pictures of their wives and sweethearts over their hearts and I so badly wish I had one of you.

  I hope all is well in Siglunes. I miss everyone but there is much here to keep my mind occupied.

  Lovingly yours, Finn

  October 25, 1914

  Dearest Ásta,

  I received your letter today and cannot describe how thrilled I am to hear from you. We have arrive
d in Britain. Surprising as this may sound, growing up in Siglunes has well prepared me for this experience. Stanley is having a difficult time. He was naive to think that he and his father would be serving together. For their sakes, I hope Kent can arrange it, but this war is a much larger undertaking than I originally imagined.

  That you decided to take your training pleases me greatly. We can marry as soon as you graduate. Just think how wonderful it will be when I am home. Marrying you is my only wish in life.

  Au revoir, mon amour. I will write again as soon as I can.

  Lovingly, Finn.

  One day in early December I hurried down the staircase to find Thora waiting for me by the piano. Clearly she was upset. She held two letters in her hand. It was dinner time but if we didn’t hurry, we’d be late.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  One letter was from her father, the other from mine. Both were posted from Siglunes on the same day. “What do you suppose this means?” she asked.

  We both feared the same thing. Together we each slipped a finger under the flap, ripping the envelopes open. I finished reading before she did and turned away, to look out the window at the gray skies.

  At the time I could only imagine what it must have been like for them when they heard of the tragedy. Now I see it unfold:

  Bjorn arrives in the early morning by horse.

  He dismounts then walks to our house staring at the ground.

  Pabbi opens the door.

  Mother hushes Solrun and Lars as Bjorn follows Pabbi to the kitchen where Leifur is eating breakfast.

  “I have terrible news to report. Stefan fell through the ice yesterday morning. He took the dog team to The Narrows to get the mail. The Postmaster said that he’d been in, filled his satchel then started south. Asi found the hole. The dogs were still harnessed to the sleigh floating under the ice.”

  Mother gasps. Pabbi closes his eyes and turns to the window. “Poor Asi,” he says.

  Leifur looks as if Bjorn has hit him with a hammer. He begins pacing between the kitchen and front room, tiny groans escaping his lips as he repeats Stefan’s name over and over, then grabs his jacket and runs outside, through the snow, across the road to the barn.