Читать книгу The Ice People 32 - Hunger - Margit Sandemo - Страница 6

Chapter 1

Did those who migrated to America in the nineteenth century actually realize how their move impacted on those they left behind? Did they ever learn of the tragedies that arose after they left?

Many migrated out of necessity, because their circumstances forced them to. Because there were too many offspring in the family and only one could inherit the miserly soil of the smallholding. The others would have to go into service. Only very few could afford to build their own house.

So emigration was their only option.

But there were just as many who made the journey out of a sense of adventure. The possibility of finding happiness lured them, the possibility of becoming wealthy – something that the son of a smallholder could only dream of ever becoming. And no one can blame them for embarking on such a journey. But they often gave very little thought to the suffering they inflicted on those whom they left behind.

Marit of Svelten was one person who was forced to suffer because of the thoughtlessness of such emigrants.

She was the latecomer of a big flock of siblings. A few of her brothers had emigrated. They would write home, describing the country in the west with grand words. The other siblings followed them. All of them, even the heir. For how could the stony, uneven soil in remote Svelten ever be attractive compared with the lure of all the gold that was to be found out there?

Their mother had died and their father was old and disgruntled. He objected to their leaving, and threatened to take his own life, but his son, the heir, stood his ground. He already had a big family that would feel cramped in that miserable cottage and he would soon have difficulty supporting it in the old country.

“You still have Marit, Father,” he said. “She can take care of you in your old age. That way you can go on living here.”

Marit was ten years old then. She was a skinny, timid little girl whose opinion no one was interested in hearing. And she was mortally afraid of her father, as she had good reason to be. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me! Don’t abandon me here with him, she would quietly pray. But no one had time to notice the look of despair in her eyes. All they knew was that they could leave with a clear conscience, because their old father wouldn’t be left to his own fate. Marit would be there.

Perhaps she would have liked to join them on their journey to the great unknown country? But no one bothered to ask what she wanted.

Was she to be left alone with their father? She who loathed every moment she had to be in the same room with him! Of course, she didn’t know the word “psychopath”, nor did she know that many people have the same reaction as she did and can’t bear to be near a psychopath without fully understanding why ... Her father had always been a complete egoist, and took every advantage of all those who were close to him. He complained and whined and always blamed others when things didn’t go his way, and was unbearably boastful, arrogant and condescending when they did. He was sly and cunning, and would slander others, would creep and crawl before the powerful and wouldn’t give the poor the time of day.

Little Marit felt almost nauseous whenever she was in his presence. And now the others were going to abandon her in Svelten with this rapidly ageing tyrant.

Her eyes filling with tears, she watched as her oldest brother and his large family disappeared down the valley.

Marit became one of the victims of emigration. Furthermore, she became one of the many who were left by society to sacrifice their lives to their old parents. For who ever took the time to consider that these caretakers also had a life? That they might in time have wished to start a family of their own, but instead were forced to abandon all those plans for the sake of a “commendable deed”, as outsiders called it? That these were independent individuals with lives of their own, and not just convenient to have around when you needed to place responsibility for the elderly on someone else so that you could leave?

In the light spring evenings, Marit would stand looking at the view behind the barn and listening to the echo of children’s voices. Those children were her nephews and nieces who had played in the yard and the surrounding woods.

They were gone now. To a land so distant she couldn’t even imagine it. The yard, the path, the entire area was quiet. It had merely been memory that had triggered the echoes of the voices that were no longer there.

She stood there with a longing that was like a physical hunger, and looked across the landscape of endless forest below Svelten. She could discern four streams but no houses. The forest path from Svelten wound invisibly among the spruces down into the valley, which was concealed by some small jutting hills. Down there was the village. Far, far away. There lay the main farm to which the smallholding of Svelten belonged, and where her brothers had had to go to daily to work – virtual slave labour – in order for the family to be able to survive in Svelten. The big farm was also where most of the crops from their smallholding went, constituting their rent.

If she turned her head and looked around, all she could see was wooded, impassable wilderness. But she knew that their closest neighbours lived on other smallholdings, in clearings hidden here and there in the deep forest.

As the years passed, the memories faded and the remembered echoes of the children’s voices faded more and more. And finally there came a time when she could no longer hear them at all.

At first her siblings wrote with great enthusiasm about all the new and exciting things they were experiencing. “You should have been there, Marit, you would never have believed your eyes!” But as is often the case with such correspondences, they grew increasingly sparse. Marit ended up writing long, clumsy letters without receiving any response. She struggled after writing the first few lines, for there was so little to tell: nothing ever happened at Svelten. One day resembled the next.

In the end, the influx of letters shrank to little more than a single card at Christmas, addressed to their “Dear Father”: “We hope Marit is taking proper care of you and making sure that you’re getting enough to eat and feeling well.” Marit faithfully continued to write about the day-to-day chores, about her father’s leg sore that wouldn’t heal properly, about bad years for blueberry crops, about an owl that had settled on the roof.

She never said anything about the misery she was enduring. Or about the constant sense of dread she felt whenever she was in her father’s presence. Or about how he would gulp down every drop of the porridge without checking to see whether there was enough for her, or how he was always complaining about the food and her housekeeping. About old imagined injustices, about how he took out all his frustration and fury on Marit, who was, of course, never allowed to defend herself.

Of course, she might have empathized with her old father, who had been forsaken by his sons and abandoned, not altogether well, alone on that wretched smallholding! If only self-pity hadn’t been his favourite daily pastime. If there had ever been a time when she had been able to feel sympathy for him, he himself had succeeded in subduing those feelings entirely. And with time she learned to loathe his grumblings.

She grew up to become a rather sweet girl, but she didn’t dare believe so herself. When she turned seventeen it was not uncommon for one of the neighbour’s boys to turn up at Svelten hoping for an opportunity to talk to her. One of them managed to get as far as exchanging a few words with her over the fence. Until her father caught sight of them. Wildly egotistical in his fear of losing his housekeeper, he began to throw stones at the young man and shout curses, calling him a lecher and even worse. That boy never returned, but another one came a few years later and, very gallantly, asked for her hand, whereupon the father grabbed his rifle from the wall and pursued the young man all the way to the edge of the forest.

An old widower who had been looking for a young, gentle, skilled wife decided not to pursue the matter further with Marit after hearing about the incident with the rifle. In those difficult years of transition, when she was maturing into an adult, the restlessness she felt caused havoc in her body and mind. Perhaps she had liked one of the boys? Perhaps it had been painful to see him disappear from her life?

Since then the boys had stopped coming.

Her father stayed alive for twenty years after his other children left.

In his last years he was bedridden, irritable, demanding and increasingly senile.

Marit had run the little smallholding all by herself ever since she was ten years old. At first it went well, but once her father needed to be cared for twenty-four hours a day she was unable to perform all her duties on the main farm. Every time she had to touch her father she grew nauseated – that was how much she loathed him. She had to gather all the strength she had in her soul in order to take care of him properly. Every now and then she would wonder whether the loathing she felt for him was mutual. He had never harboured particularly warm feelings for any of his children, nor for anyone else for that matter, except himself, but he must have sensed her reluctance even though she made an effort to cover it up by speaking calmly and gently. The looks he gave her when she changed him were downright malicious, and he loved ordering her about just so that he could sense his own power and annoy her. Afterwards she would go out into the courtyard with her hands clenched and a painful lump in her throat.

Someone from the farmstead usually came a few times a month to fetch butter and cheese or other goods – for which, of course, she didn’t receive any money, as it was part of the rent! But now that she didn’t have time for haymaking or tending to the dairy, or the other duties connected with the farm, somebody from the farm would appear every now and then to fetch one animal after another as compensation.

Finally they had nothing to live off. Marit had to snatch an hour or two during the day every so often so that she could go to the neighbours and beg for some milk or some dry bread.

The farmer had been threatening to throw them out of Svelten for a long time.

The death of her father transformed her lonely life. Except that it was too late now. Everything was. Her father’s perpetual, malicious grumblings had left scars on her soul, and her face revealed fatigue, hunger and a sense of constant despondency.

On top of that she had the eviction hanging over her head.

She had lived such an isolated life that she had grown to shun human company. She didn’t know where she would go if the only place she knew in the world was taken away from her.

Very few people attended the funeral. Just a few neighbours, that was all. Marit had written to her siblings in America that their father was now dead and that she herself could no longer continue living at Svelten. She asked whether any of them could send her a little money so that she could buy some clothes and find somewhere to live, and enough so that she could manage the first few weeks in the new place. Then perhaps she could find a job. She hadn’t been feeling so well for the last two years and could do with seeing a doctor. Or perhaps she could travel to join them?

She never received an answer.

Marit stayed at home for as long as she could, waiting for a letter. She had nothing with which to start her new life. She had gradually been forced to sell all the objects that had been of any value at Svelten. Now she was living off whatever kernels of barley she was able to sweep up from the threshing floor, frozen cowberries in the forest and water from the well.

At the funeral the neighbours had said to one another: “She looks rather feeble, that Marit of Svelten. And to think, she was a nice-looking girl once!”

“Yes, but she’s bound to get better now that old grumbler is dead and gone.”

“Shh! Don’t speak ill of the dead!”

They shook their heads with concern at the scrawny-looking girl by the grave. She was nothing but skin and bones. But they didn’t give her much thought afterwards, for they all belonged to the same main farm and had concerns of their own.

For the past few years Marit had suffered from pains in her right side. And with time the pain came more frequently. And grew stronger.

On lonely nights, when hunger nagged her body and worry tormented her soul, the pain felt doubly strong. Then she was forced to lie on her side with her knees pulled all the way up to her chin, and moan quietly. Or she sat doubled up, listening with fear to her body’s signals indicating that something was terribly wrong. If these positions didn’t alleviate the pain, she would get up and, straining with the effort, pace back and forth, holding on to the edge of the bed and moving her hands from there to the back of the chair, then to the oven handle and back again. She didn’t dare to let go of her grip, not even for a single moment, because she had once been on the verge of fainting and she didn’t want to risk falling and end up lying on the floor, unable to get up – that much she knew.

What am I to do? she thought in quiet despair. What is to become of me?

She wasn’t actually afraid of dying, for what did she have to live for? But she didn’t want to die in such a pitiful, lonely and abandoned way, and she risked having to lie there for a long time before anybody eventually came and found her corpse – for one thing she didn’t want to smell bad when they found her. But she also faced a possible eviction, she suddenly remembered ... and so her thoughts would run round in circles like that, because she was unused to thinking of her life in relation to other people.

After the lonely and agonizing hours of the night had passed she finally managed to fall asleep as daybreak approached. And then she dreamed that her father was still alive, ordering her around and lunging at her with his cane as she rushed about to obey his orders ... and then she woke up.

“Thank you, dear God, it was only a dream,” she whispered out loud. She sighed heavily, feeling faint and dizzy.

A new pang made her double up again. Since she hadn’t had anything to eat for so many hours that she couldn’t keep track of them anymore, her stomach was completely empty, yet still her stomach muscles contracted in a merciless wave of nausea.

This won’t do at all, she thought as she tried to stand upright. She swayed as she stood, with her hand firmly gripping the edge of the bed. She was seriously ill now, she realized. The gravity of the situation seemed to be mocking her in the distorted glass of the wardrobe mirror.

What am I to do? she thought for the umpteenth time, though panicking slightly now. The situation had become truly serious now – she had waited much too long in the hopeless belief that things would improve, that perhaps a letter would arrive from America.

I’m going to have to ask someone for help. But I don’t dare, I can’t speak to anyone, I don’t know how to associate with other people anymore.

Oh, I just want to die here!

But an hour later she had managed to pull herself together. Practically crawling around on the floor, she had managed to collect a few of her belongings together in her berry pail and, with great pain, coaxed it over her shoulders. She couldn’t bear to touch her stomach and it felt as though her clothes were cutting into her body, causing her such agony that she could hardly breathe.

Then she started walking. That is to say, she staggered from tree to tree, tottering or crawling, and had to rest at every tree. She didn’t once turn around and look back at Svelten, didn’t even consider it. She didn’t have the energy and just needed to concentrate on remaining conscious.

She had thought of going to the nearest neighbour, who lived at the far end of the bog to the east. She didn’t dare venture down into the village, and anyway it was too far, she would never be able to manage it.

It was late autumn, or rather, the beginning of winter. The ground was bare and frozen, the air was cold and crisp and the sky was blue. A few clusters of rowanberries still glowed against the blue, and Marit thought with longing that there was food to be found here! But she was unable to reach the berries, couldn’t even straighten her body.

The bogs. She had now reached them, she could tell by the empty space before her. Her eyes were shrouded by fever and pain, making the white frost on the delicate blades of grass across the bog shine like diamonds in a fairytale.

Don’t go out on the bog when you can’t see properly! Go around it! But it will be such a long way ... Marit’s legs would no longer carry her, she had to crawl all the time now. The consequences of her undernourished state were becoming increasingly evident. Without realizing it, she had grabbed hold of a cloudberry tuft, she had instinctively been able to recognize its rust brown leaves. With a primitive reflex she put the whole thing in her mouth. She woke up when she started crunching the dry leaves.

But what am I doing? she thought in despair, spitting and coughing out the leaves. Have I really reached that point?

She started to cry. Dry, deep sobs that singed like fire in her aching body.

That ache consumed her last energy. Without being able to prevent it, she felt her consciousness gradually beginning to fade. Her arms gave way, she collapsed and lay in a deep torpor.

Her last thought was so unclear that it could hardly be described as a thought. But it was something like: “There was no room for me in the world. It didn’t want me.” In a brief flash a swift plummeted down behind her closed eyelids, then ascended with a joyous, swirling warble to heaven. And an endless sorrow flared up in Marit’s chest. But everything was so hazy that it could have been a dream, which disappeared so swiftly that not even its memory would remain.

Two children found her. They had been sent out to gather moss. They had gone far from home and the day was at its brightest when they saw a woman lying motionless at the edge of the bog. She was covered with white frost and looked dead.

At first they were afraid and wanted to run away, but then the older one grew curious and they noticed that her chest was slowly and strenuously moving up and down.

“Goodness, what are we to do?” the younger one asked with big eyes.

The older one had already started to shake Marit. “Hello! You have to wake up! It’s cold out here!”

But Marit didn’t move.

They looked at one another. “Well, she can’t just lie here. And we can’t carry her! We’ll have to get help!”

The children were from the village, and didn’t know where to find the closest smallholding. There was Svelten, but they knew they would find no help there. So they ran as fast as they could back down the long road to the valley. The moss they had collected spilled out of their baskets as they ran and lay like white balls on the snow.

Since it was downhill most of the way, they got down fairly quickly. They ran so fast that they weren’t always able to slow down enough at the corners and ended up landing in the undergrowth from time to time.

They were siblings, a boy and his little sister, and never had they experienced anything so horrible and exciting!

Out of breath, their eyes wide open with excitement, they reached the first house in the village. Their own home was a good way farther down, but the market was nearby and that was where the boy headed. His little sister tagged along behind him, for she always did exactly what he did. They were staggering now for they had run more than walked, and running downhill is hard on the knees and tendons.

Normally the children would have been shy of the market people, but the drama of what they had just experienced made them overcome their shyness. Anyone could see that they had something important to say, so everyone quietened down and listened.

“There is a ... woman ... up on the bog,” the boy gasped.

“We thought she was dead but she wasn’t.”

“Where on the bog?” the stallholder asked.

The children pointed eagerly. “Way up by the ridge.”

“Can you show us the way?”

The children’s eyes grew uncertain. Would they be able to do that?

“I think so,” the boy said meekly.

“Who is it?”

“We don’t know her.”

“Is she old?”

“Yes.”

Children never have a clear sense of age.

The grown-ups conferred with one another for a moment. Of course they would have to go up and help the woman in distress. But who should go? The road up to the ridge would take at least an hour, and no one had the time to be away for that long. Getting back down would probably take even longer.

And what if she was already dead once they got up there? The thought scared them all quite a bit, then one of them had an idea.

“The doctor who’s come here to fish – perhaps we should ask him?”

“But we can’t disturb him, he is a hospital doctor and he’s on holiday!”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask!”

A bold young man ventured up to the farm where the doctor was renting a room for a few days. The hospital was located farther down the valley.

The good doctor was sitting in front of an ample breakfast. His fishing tackle was in the hallway ready for use, for the river here had an abundance of fish and attracted many tourists. But at this time of year the doctor had the fishing ground to himself, as a crust of ice lay thin and crisp along the bank of the river.

But there was no doubt that the doctor was ready to come along when he heard the story. He only needed a few minutes to change his plans for the day and prepare for a “sick call”.

Some robust farmers were waiting by the market, a small group of men who had been selected to go up there. And the children were standing with them, their hearts pounding anxiously: what if they couldn’t find their way back to the place?

But there had been no need for them to worry. For, just like the fairytale of Hansel and Gretel, they had left light, clear footprints in the snow on their way down. The baskets they had filled with moss were almost empty now.

The men scrutinized the young doctor sceptically as he approached them. What would a greenhorn like that know about disease? But as he came closer they were able to see that he wasn’t quite so shockingly young as they had initially thought. They discerned a sense of responsibility and gravity in his serious face that put them more at ease. He was dark, with clear-cut features, regular eyebrows and a sharp profile, and he was tall and lean.

He greeted them and asked a few questions, first and foremost addressing the children, who swallowed and answered in trembling voices.

One of the men said, “It’s very commendable of you to come, Doctor. I never did catch your name?”

“No, of course, I apologize,” the doctor answered with a smile which for a moment made his severe-looking face brighten up. “It’s Christoffer. Christoffer Volden of the Ice People. Shall we go?”