Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  Mother starts to cry.

  “They are already searching,” Bjorn says. “I am going to tell J.K. now.”

  Pabbi takes a deep breath. “We will come with you.”

  Our beloved lake, once again.

  In the tradition of our forefathers, every fisherman pulled up his nets. Pabbi and Leifur went every day onto the lake to help search.

  Thinking back on it, Lars changed that year. Maybe it was Freyja’s disappearance or our sadness, or maybe imagining the dark mass under the ice, hearing the men chiseling holes with a needle bar. They used a large hook to snag and pull the waterlogged one-armed body out of the hole. They laid Stefan gently on his side so that those who could not bear it didn’t have to see his slack jaw and fear-frozen eyes. Pabbi tried to shield Leifur, but he was too late. Perhaps it was witnessing our brother’s pain that turned Lars quiet and solemn.

  December 13, 1914

  Dearest Finn,

  I am sure by now you have received a letter from your father about Stefán. Leifur is taking it particularly hard. Losing Freyja first and now her beau. Both have been erased from his life in less than a year.

  I hope this letter finds you well and you are not as overwhelmed as I. Training is far more demanding than I expected. That is why it has taken me so long to write.

  Do they have water closets there? Not using an outhouse was a difficult thing to imagine. It is convenient, especially this time of year. There is no odor, which surprised me, but now I understand why. It is essential that everything here at the hospital be kept clean and sterilized.

  Did you know that many substances transmit molecules into the air and that’s why we smell them? Some are harmful, such as bacteria. That is why the Tuberculosis patients are housed in a separate wing. The bacteria from their lungs is exhaled into the air and that is how others catch the disease. We always must be careful of what we inhale. What a learning experience this is.

  Tell me what it is like there.

  Lovingly, Ástfriður

  Christmas that year was spent in the pediatrics ward with at least thirty ailing children, some two to a bed. They looked so pathetic I couldn’t help but think of poor little Solrun being here. I spent every waking hour with them, reading aloud from the Sagas. I saw how comforting this was, especially to the Icelandic children, and was able to hold the wide-eyed attention of the others, who of course, had never heard the stories before. It was a challenge at first, reading in Icelandic then translating to English, but I am proud to say I did an adequate job.

  A letter from Mother arrived early in the New Year:

  December 26, 1914

  Dear Ásta,

  We received your photograph on Friday. What a smart looking uniform, and you look so grown up wearing that cap. I hope the workload has eased a bit, you sounded tired last time you wrote. I hope you are getting enough rest.

  Björn is spending more time in the store, especially in the evenings. We see him sometimes going through the accounts under lamplight. He hasn’t said, but I think he misses having you there. The Sveistrup girl is doing a satisfactory job but she is young and no doubt misses her beau. You will have to ask Finn if he has seen him yet.

  Signý and the boys are all fine and Ólafur is cheerful as ever. Thankfully, baby Jón can sleep through all the noise. They were here yesterday. Pétur has grown nearly as tall as Sólrún. He constantly wants to try her brace.

  Amma was here for Christmas. I trust you find the time to attend church. Our congregation has reduced by a third with so many young men, you, and Thora away.

  Leifur seems much happier these days with Bensi gone. Sigrid Gunnarsson is the new teacher. They have been spending a lot of time together and it would not surprise me if they marry.

  Leifur has moved into Amma’s house and is hoping to buy Bensi’s land which would be a great addition to our farm.

  And then in Pabbi’s handwriting:

  I will try not to repeat what your Mama has already written. Unfortunately fishing is poor this year which I am attributing to the slow freeze up. It started out quite promising but those two weeks of warm temperatures at the end of November (when Stefán drowned), accompanied by a strong wind from the west, broke up the ice and we lost a dozen nets. We were able to replace them, but as with everything else, there is always a cost. The weather is cold now. I measured over a foot of snow on the ice, and the wind is howling again. I think the winter will be long.

  I’d hoped that you would write more about what it is like living in Winnipeg. Do find time to go by the Lögberg office to meet the editor. Tell him that I think he is doing a fine job and that I particularly enjoy his perspective on the war. We are very proud of you. I am confident you will do well.

  Pabbi

  The months flew by. I barely saw Thora as we were placed in different classes. The workload was exhausting. I arrived to our room one evening to find a note, written in Superintendent Gray’s strict hand, tacked to the door. A note usually meant something was wrong. I quickly tore it down hoping no one else had seen it. I was to meet in her office the next day. I lay awake half the night worrying. I already knew the reason.

  As I lowered myself into the chair across the desk from her, Miss Gray opened the file folder with my name on it.

  “Thora tells me that you are engaged to her brother,” she said, not looking up as she flipped through the pages. “He is overseas?”

  She leaned back in the chair removing her spectacles. She read my expression for a few moments. I tried to hide my embarrassment but wasn’t doing a good job of it.

  “Your marks,” she said, “are not what I expected.”

  Unable to meet her gaze I agreed, a huge lump rising in my throat. I’d never received anything but perfect grades. She waited for me to say something but I couldn’t speak.

  “He is the reason?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You are not worried about him?” she asked, surprised.

  “Finn is resourceful. He is capable of taking care of himself.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Then what is wrong?”

  I shook my head. I could not lie but I also couldn’t tell the truth. She waited for my response. When none came, she looked at the folder again and sighed.

  “The head nurses say that during class your thoughts are elsewhere and the results of your latest tests reflect that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I have seen many girls pass through these doors and few are as capable as you. Have you given up?”

  “No, Ma’am, I never give up.”

  She looked skeptical. “Beginning in March there will be a series of preparatory tests and then first year exams at the end of April. If you fail—”

  I didn’t hear what she said after that. I held back the tears until I was through the front door and into the crisp, February air. The hospital front entrance was only a few blocks away. I kept my head down, holding my hat to keep it from blowing off as I ran, Amma’s words from years ago rolling through my mind: We came to America for the girls so they can achieve their heart’s desire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Do not expect to make headway with a frail sailcloth

  —Eyrbyggja Saga

  How many hours have passed this time?

  “Amma,” I whisper, feeling her presence. Slowly she comes into focus, standing beside life-sized Jesus. My Amma, in her prime. Beautiful, strong, erect. So much younger than I am now.

  “Freyja,” I whisper, “where did she go?”

  Amma looks serene, more so than she ever did in life. So calm, so full of love.

  The answer you want, she says as the vision fades, is right here in this room.

  I barely have time to say: “I will see you again soon,” then Amma is gone.

  Thora is alarmed. She raises a hand to her chest and looks over h
er shoulder at the wall. It takes a few moments for her to recover. “Did you see her?” she asks.

  I point to the scrapbook on the side table and she shakily rounds the bed to pick it up, opening to a random page. She keeps turning until I motion for her to stop.

  “There,” I say. The years we spent in Winnipeg. That photo from the Winnipeg Free Press of the 1915 war rally. Pabbi’s editorials. And the faraway photo of Thora and me with the rest of our graduating class taken two years later.

  “What is it?” she asks, her expression a curious mixture of fear and hope. “Are you remembering something?”

  All at once I understand what Amma meant. Thora knows more than she is letting on. I see in her expression that she has known all along.

  * * *

  Normally I rejoiced at the onset of spring. I’d turn my face up to the sky, drink in the warmth of the sun, listen to everything at the farm come to life. Here in Winnipeg though, there was none of that. I became so focused on my studies and absorbed in the life of a student nurse, there was no time to enjoy the change of seasons, or even to consider if this was the life I wanted.

  At the end of March, I received this letter from Finn:

  February 7, 1915

  Dearest Ásta,

  Who would have guessed a year ago that I’d be writing to you from France? We landed at Calais then travelled by train to Hazebrouck which I am told is near the Belgium border. Our squadron is part of the reserve right now. Apparently the allied forces are fighting nearby, but aside from aeroplanes overhead and the sound of explosions in the distance, I have not seen much of the war. As you can imagine everyone is growing restless since we’ve done nothing but training exercises. Only a few brought books so I trade with them. Thankfully there is much gained from reading a book twice.

  A package arrived from the Red Cross. I received a pair of wool socks, mitts, cigarettes (which I gave away). I am convinced the mitts were made by you as they have two thumbs, but how is this possible? They say the IODE in Winnipeg sent the box. If you can, please pass on our thanks. It is cold and rainy here so these items will bring us much comfort.

  The men accustomed to physical work are faring much better than those who held office jobs. Stanley now wishes that he’d spent his summers at the farm. The people in the nearby towns hold us in high regard, especially George because he is an Indian, which is opposite to what we see at home. He is as proficient with a gun as I, and equally surefooted in the drills.

  There is a fellow in our unit who reminds me so much of Olafur it is staggering. He is a wonderful inspiration to everyone. Stanley has changed his tune about farmers. Yesterday he said that he wishes there were more ‘Thorsteinsson boys’ enlisted and now compares everyone to them.

  I have to say that I don’t mind this life of strict discipline. Colonel Lipsett reminds me of Father. I expect once this idleness ends everyone will be in a much better state of mind.

  I received the photo of you in your uniform and you look quite beautiful. I am sure the sight of you is comforting to the sick and weary, I know it certainly heartens me.

  Reading back over my letter I see that I am beginning to speak more like an Englishman. It is difficult not to whilst being surrounded by so many. Do not let this trouble you. I will always be an Icelander at heart.

  Lovingly, Finn

  Years later, I would re-read this letter and it would always take me back to our week of exams and I’d wonder how Thora and I struggled through it.

  The morning after our first exam the dining room was abuzz with an unusual amount of chatter. The students were huddled over a table reading the Winnipeg Free Press.

  “Have you heard the news?” a second year student asked.

  Until that point the war hadn’t touched us, the details scant. But there on the front page was a photograph from the trenches in Ypres, Belgium. The scene was horrendous. Dead soldiers lying in the deep, mud-packed crevice, while others carried the injured away on stretchers. The room grew silent as a nurse began reading out loud:

  “ . . . the 1st Canadian Division was hit particularly hard in the brutal and unethical attack by the Germans who have employed the use of chlorine gas against our troops. Ninety men died immediately in the trenches and of the 207 brought to the nearest dressing stations, 46 died almost immediately and a dozen after long suffering . . . many men from our own 8th battalion are still unaccounted for . . . ”

  I closed my eyes. Thora grew tense beside me. Another girl ran from the room. Three students quit that day to go home.

  Thora and I did not speak to anyone for the rest of the day. We crawled silently into bed that night after writing our second exam. As we lay in the darkness, she began crying.

  “I cannot imagine life without my brother,” she sobbed.

  Reality struck me for the first time. I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice, “Neither can I.”

  Every morning after that, I rose a half hour earlier. I went out into the cool spring air to buy a paper from the boy yelling headlines from the corner.

  Somehow we managed to get through the weeks. We held our breath every morning as we took turns running a finger down the daily list of fatalities, thankful when we did not see his name. I read every word concerning the war, clipped the pages, bundled them and mailed the packages home.

  May 7, 1915

  Dear Pabbi,

  Here is the latest package regarding the war.

  It saddens me to say that in today’s paper there is a story about Kent and Stanley (page 3, Prominent City Lawyer and Son Killed). As soon as we can, Thora and I will visit Elizabeth to offer condolences. With classes done and exams written, we should have more free time now. It would be impossible to have any less.

  The entire average is down from last year as the war is on everyone’s mind. The Superintendent will take this into consideration so anyone with a failing grade can re-write the test this summer. Fortunately, I am not one of them.

  I did not have to go by the Lögberg office as the editor is a member of our church. I found the courage to introduce myself and he remembers your letters to him on education reform and the war. Apparently you are a celebrity in the Icelandic community here as many share your views. He would like to meet you one day.

  I have not yet heard from Finn.

  Ástfriður

  Two days later, on Sunday morning, there was a knock on our door. Thora and I’d finished breakfast and were getting ready for church. I was surprised to see Joanna standing in the hallway.

  “Today is the Decoration Day parade,” she said. “Would you like to join me and other members of the IODE?”

  She explained that there would be no church service as everyone was encouraged to attend the memorial at the University of Manitoba grounds instead. She told us to put on our uniforms and meet her downstairs.

  The parade was like nothing we’d ever witnessed. I counted eleven cars filled with IODE members and we were only a small part of the parade. Veterans from earlier wars, all dressed in khaki, carried flags as they strode uniformly ahead of the cadets, boy scouts and a marching band.

  The streets were lined with waving, cheering people. As we rolled by I was overcome with pride. The little bit of volunteering we did and the fact we were nurses somehow linked us to the suffering that was going on overseas. It was impossible to come away from it unchanged.

  We stopped briefly in front of City Hall where a wreath was placed at the foot of the 90th Regiment Memorial, honoring Winnipeg’s deceased from earlier wars. I caught a glimpse of Elizabeth standing with other mourners. She was dressed sharply, in solid black, a sheer veil covering her face. She did not cry, not even once, and in later years when I’d hear reference to the British ‘stiff upper lip,’ I always thought of her in that moment. It was such a grave contrast to the memory of her throwing back her head in laughter and trying to pronounce Vínarte
rta in Gudrun’s kitchen.

  When the parade was over, Joanna’s husband drove us back to the dormitory. Before I got out of the car, Joanna touched my hand.

  “A woman from our church thinks she may have seen Freyja,” she whispered. “I will find out more.”

  A month later I received this letter from Bjorn:

  June 16, 1915

  Dear Ásta,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Any progress on the search for Freyja? You sounded so discouraged the last time you wrote that I dared not say anything to your mother.

  I have cleared a spot on the wall by the post office so your father can post your clippings. Our kitchen is the place where everyone stops to read, drink coffee, and discuss the war. I am not sure if the nurse who takes care of Bergthora and your Amma enjoys making coffee for so many, but so far she has not complained. I suggested we charge one cent a cup to cover our costs, but Father will not hear of it.

  I think the nurse has a soft spot for Father who constantly charms her. The nurse believes Freda is his wife but he has not corrected her, even though it makes your Amma furious. It is most humorous to watch.

  We decided to forego the picnic at The Narrows. With Stefán drowned and so many of our players at war, we can’t muster the excitement needed to play ball decently. Life is not the same around here.

  Ási brings the mail now since nobody wanted Stefán’s job. He is taking Stefán’s death hard and drinking far too much. Father has tried talking to him but to no avail.

  Have you heard from Finn? Guðrún comes in every mail day looking for a letter. The last one came three months ago, in March.

  Everyone misses seeing you here, including me. I honestly never realized how much you did around this place.

  Fondly, Björn

  P.S. Father insisted on sending enough to pay for the newspapers. Now you are obliged to keep sending them, a strategy he enjoys. I hope that you will use your allowance to buy something for yourself. Have you been to the Hudson’s Bay Company store yet?