A Change of Time

by Ida Jessen

  “They’ve brought you snow,” she says to her son. “Give me your hand.” She places some snow in his hand. It melts immediately and runs into the bedding, and he smiles a barely conscious, delirious and grateful smile that passes fleetingly over his face and does not return.

  * * *

  —

  She goes back to fetch the empty bowl and is startled to a halt in the doorway. A second man has come. He is not very tall, but fuller in figure than the first, with dark and shiny hair. He sits and smokes a pipe the same as the one she saw before. Neither of the two men seems to notice her. There is a bottle on the table.

  “Bering,” she says with a groan. The second man rises to his feet and bows, but she pays him no heed.

  “What is this, Bering?”

  “Everything’s fine,” her husband says. “They’re on their way to Randbøl. They need a place for the night.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “We let him in.”

  We most certainly did not, she says to herself.

  “And what’s that bottle doing there? Tell them to put out their pipes. Make them understand. The house could burn down, and then where would we be?” She steps forward with her hand outstretched, stamps her foot and gestures to be given the pipes. Her husband bows his head.

  He is the authority.

  Authority resides here, this house is the pivot of the law in the two far-flung parishes of Thyregod and Vester. And yet they do not feel safe. No one is here to help them, and no one can now come in.

  “We’ll be murdered in our beds,” she says out loud. The men surrender their pipes. “The bottle as well.” She gestures. The second man hands her the bottle. The grin on his face nearly makes her nauseous.

  The boy and the girl sit huddled together at the stove when she returns to the kitchen. They have contrived to fall asleep and yet keep each other upright. The girl clutches a dark wooden barrel plug in her hand. She wakes them up. “Go to bed,” she says. “You need to sleep.”

  When they have left her and she is alone, she takes the silver goblets and the spoons from the shelf and wraps them up in layers of cloth. Quietly she opens the door. In the stable she finds a spade. She opens the gate, and then she is outside. The dog was not there. Perhaps they have tied it somewhere. It is still snowing. She follows the wall of the stable. The heath comes right up to the buildings, only the kitchen garden, where the curly kale pokes from the earth and a pair of gooseberry bushes likewise break the flatness, is amenable to digging. She lays the silverware on the ground and thrusts the spade into the soil. The frost is as yet only at the surface, and though she is old there is still a strength in her body.

  When she has dug the hole and placed the items in the ground and covered them up, she realizes the air is full of sounds. At first she thinks it to be the rush of her blood, but indeed it is song, passing over into a whisper in which mingle the sounds of rattling bridles and horses whinnying, as though a whole procession were riding through the night. She lifts her head; the sky is black. There is nothing to see but the snow. The snow, spilling from the sky.

  * * *

  —

  When she returns inside, the house has retired. Her husband has gone to bed. The two men lie in the baking oven. But she remains up. She sits with her son. The snow has melted in the bucket. She wrings a cloth in its water and washes his hands and face. No candle or lamp has she lit. His spirit seems to have dwindled, it feels like she is sitting with the very dimness of his being now, as she strokes his hair and cheeks and brow. Now and then she gets to her feet and goes out onto the step and listens. The night is still now. The procession has ridden on. It has passed. In the baking oven the men are calm. Each time she looks, they are lying in the same position as the last time.

  As the hours progress she goes between her son, the sleeping guests, and the step.

  And then, when morning comes and she looks into the baking oven, she looks directly into a pair of open eyes. Vater is sitting upright.

  In a moment his feet are on the floor, he calls to his companion over his shoulder. His hands fumble with his clothing, his trousers. She tries to dart away, but he grabs her and holds her back. He bends down and deposits a handful of soil-dusted tubers on the floor. “Ertaapeln,” he says. He mimes digging with a spade. He places a tuber in the hole he has dug in the air and covers it up. He looks at her shrewdly. “Gut,” he says.

  There are thirteen in all. She turns on her heels.

  “Bering,” she shouts. “They’re leaving. Help them with the bull.”

  As soon as they are gone, she takes one of the tubers and tosses it on the muck heap. The rest she leaves on the floor. Shortly, the boy and girl come in.

  “They’re potatoes,” says the boy. “They grow in sandy earth. People think them poisonous.” He fetches a sock and puts the potatoes inside, and buries them in the straw of his bed. “In a hundred years,” he says, “the heath will be gone.”

  “I don’t believe it,” says the girl.

  “In time we shall be fat and rich and sated. In time there will be fields here. By then, all people will be able to read.”

  “I don’t believe it,” the girl says again.

  “Wait and see,” says the boy.

  November 4

  A free-school teacher must be able to tell a story, for storytelling is the heart of any teaching. Whenever I told the children about the potato-Germans who came up here and became a part of the great movement that together with rationalism formed the very beginnings of the society we know today, I told them about Vater who came riding on a bull and in thanks for the hospitality he received at the rectory gave the pastor’s wife thirteen potatoes. Sometimes I made him an imposing, self-assured man, on other occasions he was a poor wretch who could be mistaken with any one among the hordes of beggars who vagabonded through Europe at that time. The children liked the thought that Brorson found his inspiration for Behold a Host, Arrayed in White in Thyregod, and that it was from Thyregod that the potato spread throughout the land, and they would ask what became of the clever boy. “Perhaps he is the great-great-grandfather of one of you,” I would suggest in reply. On other occasions, I told them he went to Copenhagen and became a renowned biologist. It would set them thinking. Could someone renowned come from Thyregod? Yes, I would say, think of Grundtvig. But the children did not find Grundtvig to be a good example, since he lived here only a few short years. Was it possible to go to Copenhagen? Everything is possible, I said. Think of Anders Blikker’s father, who visited America almost thirty years ago. We often ventured out on the wings of our imaginations, instead of concentrating on facts and realities as we were supposed to.

  Sometimes they told me stories of their own. One of them, which I recall to this day since it puzzled me so, went like this: When Brande Church was being built there was a troll who lived in Thyregod, and the troll became so angry he picked up a mighty rock and hurled it at the tower. But the rock missed and landed in the beck out at Krusborg. There were five marks on the rock.

  It left me perplexed. “What do the five marks mean?” I asked.

  “They don’t mean anything.”

  “Then why do you tell the story?”

  “Because there were five marks on it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There just were.”

  “But have you seen the rock?”

  They fell silent. Then one of them said yes, and cast me a furtive glance. Others had seen it too, it quickly turned out.

  That aided my understanding somewhat. And yet the story left me strangely unsettled. The children, however, were most satisfied, though may possibly have felt unsettled themselves for having lied.

  * * *

  —

  Today I went to speak to Peder Møllergaard, manager of the savings bank and chairman of the parish council. Until a few years ago, the
savings bank had its address in his private home at Lunds Farm, but now they have an office at the temperance hotel and are open every Thursday in the late afternoon.

  “Good afternoon, Fru Bagge,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, Peder Møllergaard,” I replied.

  “And so the time has come for us to discuss matters,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do have a seat, Fru Bagge.”

  Even now, in his early eighties, he is one of the tallest men in the parish, and moreover solidly built. So big and callused are his hands, and covered in senile warts, that when shaking his hand in greeting one feels oneself to be but the wispiest breath of a very young girl. I have seen him draw barbed wire as one would draw a rope.

  In the summer of 1864, still referred to as the Dry Summer, need was so great here in the district that not even the heather could provide fodder enough for the winter. When Peder Møllergaard one evening stood and looked out over the rough and arid land, the very sight of it brought tears to his eyes, and because he wept so, he realized that something had to be done. Thus, the savings bank was founded. There were twelve depositors in all, each deposit between three and five rigsdalers in sum.

  I have always been moved by the thought of the man who stood and wept at the side of his house, not for want of strength, but out of love for the land from which he came, and when at school I told the children about the savings bank and how much it has meant for our town in allowing those of humble means the opportunity to borrow and invest, that is what I told them.

  Peder Møllergaard opened a drawer and took out a document. He put on his spectacles and read through what was written, his head moving slowly from side to side as his eyes passed over the lines, peering over the rim of the spectacles.

  “This letter in my hand, Fru Bagge,” he said, “is from your husband.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “He was aware of his plight. And he has taken care of matters. I would say that he has taken very good care indeed, Fru Bagge.” And then he mentioned a sum. The result, he said, of a sale of bonds during the summer, deposited in an account in my name.

  I was so taken aback, I spluttered: “I had no idea Vigand had any bonds.”

  “I imagine he wished for you not to bother your mind with the matter, Fru Bagge,” Peder Møllergaard replied, and folded the letter. I did not inquire about anything else. But now I cannot help but wonder where those bonds came from. I never knew his parents, and Vigand was uninformative as to his background, but I suppose there was an inheritance, for if there is one thing I do know, it is that the money cannot have come from his practice, since his patients were seldom able to pay for his consultations, and more frequently were released from the debt. They said in the town that Dr. Bagge would positively bark at those who stood before him and clutched their coins, and would tell them to keep such a pittance, did they honestly believe it made any difference to him? I must confess that I always thought it to be chivalry, but perhaps it was actually the pure and unembellished truth.

  I said goodbye to Peder Møllergaard and left.

  I am shaken.

  He told me that as chairman of the parish council he would naturally be interested to learn of any change in my circumstances. He was thinking of my impending move. “It is indeed satisfying to know, Fru Bagge,” he said, “that you can have things any way you want.”

  I could move back to Fyn, if that is what I want.

  I feel like a person standing in a landscape so empty and open that it matters not a bit in which direction I choose to go. There would be no difference: north, south, east, or west, it would be the same wherever I went.

  * * *

  I have lit the lamp. I have written to Line and told her that I sent her dresser with the carrier today. And I have written to Dr. Eriksen and told him that I should like to buy back the car.

  November 10

  It is slaughtering time. From the butcher Schnedler’s farm come the most terrifying squeals.

  I caught the train to Give at midday and walked up to the hospital, where Dr. Eriksen had brought the car out. He was embarrassed by the situation and we dealt hurriedly with the business. He asked how I was thinking of getting it home, and I told him I would drive. He got to his feet to accompany me outside, but I declined and said there was nothing to worry about, which seemed to relieve him somewhat. I saw nothing of Nurse Svendsen.

  I have sat beside Vigand enough times to know how one starts a motor car and which pedal is the brake, which the clutch and the accelerator. First, I drove out in the direction of Riis, then eventually turned back to Give and parked in the street outside the police station.

  “I’ve come to obtain a driver’s licence,” I said to Jonassen, who also happens to be the vehicle inspector, and took him over to the bay window, where I pointed out.

  “How did that vehicle arrive here?” he wanted to know.

  “I drove it,” I told him.

  The information was sufficient for him to return to his desk and issue the document to me. I paid the four kroner it cost and received a stamp. I am now the holder of a driver’s licence.

  Sometimes things are so easy, at other times so hard as to defy comprehension.

  * * *

  —

  Speaking of things being easy: I received my education from the Ringe School of Education, where for two years I was a student of Rasmus Laursen. There were six of us in my year, and Dagny Nielsen and I were the only girls. She died at an early age, many years ago now. I made good friends at Ringe. Dagny, of course, and also two young men, whose names were Erland and Ervin. We lodged in different parts of the town and would meet up in the evenings after lessons. Once, when Erland and Ervin were sitting in my room, which I had rented from a seamstress, Erland began to laugh so much he tipped backwards on his chair against a wallpapered partition and disappeared through a hole into the seamstress’s chamber. He talked loudly, sang loudly, laughed loudly, and was the most helpful person I have ever known. If ever I told him to quiet down, he would lower his blushing face to mine and dampen his voice. But he would always want to discuss a matter, and would go on until it no longer made sense and everyone had wearied of it.

  Ervin was different entirely. It was as if he gave out a light, and that light surrounded him; he was a good listener, and quite refined. He was happy in himself, and always remembered the people he had encountered, no matter the circumstance. He made them feel known.

  One time when we were out on teaching practice, Ervin and I went over to botanize in a corner of the meadow that ran up to the school. The idea was to make a survey of what we found and then send the children out in the next lesson to gather plants for a herbarium. We would then be able to shine with our knowledge. We had each taken a handbook of flowers with us in our pockets, and yet we still found specimens we were unable to look up. “Can’t we just pull them up?” I suggested, and as he stood and gaped at me his face widened into a laugh, and at that moment it felt like something sank inside my chest.

  In the winter we skated on the pond. One night, Ervin and I went there on our own. We skated under the moon. It was a half-moon, its light was so bright it cast shadows. There were reeds at the bank. The sounds that can come from a frozen pond on such a night: the skates, and the humming and singing beneath the ice when pockets of gas are set in motion and shoot from one end to another. We skated alongside each other with hands crossed, when suddenly the ice cracked with a sharp report, we plunged and found ourselves in water to the waist. He lifted me up and put me down on the edge of the ice, and afterwards I managed to haul him up too. We ran home as fast as we could, wild with laughter.

  So much joy between us. It felt like the world would forever be new. How marvelous it would be to hear that laughter again. I see the meadow in my mind, or rather the light above the meadow. In my recollection it is almost white. Oddly, Ervin’s ha
ir is almost white too, the same color as the bleached grass, the pale light.

  * * *

  —

  At the School of Education we were instructed in botany, the history of the Nordic region, geography, Danish, arithmetic, storytelling, the Bible, world history, pedagogy, reading, music, and drawing, as well as in summer half an hour of physical education each day. But above all we learned what would be expected of us when our training was complete and we were to engage with a circle of parents as well as children. It was impressed upon us that while the ideal of the free school was one thing, with its emphasis on culture and freedom and its eschewal of exams, it was quite another to be cast into its everyday practice. Rasmus Laursen, who took us in pedagogy, told us this: “You cannot change the world, and if you think it must adapt to you, then you are very much mistaken.”

  But I, who had attended Ryslinge, dreamed of the Folk High School, and as our graduation approached I wrote to Ryslinge’s principal, Didriksen, whom I knew from my time there, and asked if he might have need of me to teach needlework, Danish history, and physical education for girls, and when I told Ervin what I had done he said right away: “Then I’ll do the same.” Again, that sinking feeling inside my chest, which I honestly recall to be a sudden sense of plummeting, as when a house abruptly settles, and I was so startled by it that I began to laugh. And he laughed too.

  November 12

  It has caused a stir that I have become a motorist. People come and visit. They do not appear to be dissatisfied by it. “It was sad the doctor and the car went at the same time,” said Hilda and laughed for a moment before halting abruptly in dismay and bursting into tears, and today when I was in town to buy coffee, the grocer Rosenstand reminded me that I had been the first lady of the town to ride a bicycle. Yet the butcher Schnedler says: “I hope you’re not intending to drive off for good?”