Читать книгу When I Was a Child - Vilhelm Moberg - Страница 10

The Russo-Japanese War broke out during the winter. The Japanese had made an unexpected attack on the Russian fleet in Port Arthur harbor. Now frequent visits were made to cottages with newspapers. The name of the Russian fortress became Potatur, which was easier to pronounce. Valter was on the side of the Japanese; he had heard that they were yellow, and he thought yellow a beautiful color; he liked the color of the gun belt and the stripes on Father’s Crown pants.

Toward spring two faces vanished from his world. Grandmother in Trångadal no longer came to warm her feet against the stove rail. Her eyes no longer ran—he had seen her in the coffin with her eyes closed. As a memento he kept the funeral candy with its black paper and silvery letters: WORLDLY WORRIES FLEE.

A few weeks later his brother Ivar went to America. Albin had kept his promise and sent the ticket. Ivar left in the company of Miller-Kalle’s Albert and Ture, the son of the railroad section boss. They pooled their savings and bought a deck of cards so they could play blackjack during the voyage.

Those were the emigration years, and many people went to America, from Strängshult as well as from other places. It was a real America-spring. The youths still too young to emigrate sang songs about America’s attractions: hundred-dollar bills grew on trees, and one sat in the shade and let the bills drop into one’s lap.

Valter never got to know his older brothers. He was too small while they still remained at home, and as he grew up they left on the White Star Liners, the fastest in the world.

A few days after the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War he began school, and many new faces came into his world.

He began to understand now, said Mother. Miss Tyra, the teacher, gave him many proverbs from the schoolbook which he must learn by heart: “Early liar, old thief.” “Slow wind will also bring a ship to harbor.” “Too wise is unwise.” “Better poor with honor than rich with dishonor.” “Teach youth, honor age!” These proverbs were supposed to give him much pleasure and comfort later in life. He learned to spell, and read the Catechism and the Biblical History, and began with the four rules of arithmetic. He managed well in everything except arithmetic. To add or subtract was easy enough, but to divide or multiply was an ordeal; he would concentrate until his head ached. Nor could he write the figure eight to please the teacher. One circle he might manage, but never both. Miss Tyra said his eights looked like deformed mice. Once he was told to stand at the blackboard for a whole hour—to write an endless number of eights.

From his comrades in school he learned a great deal: to understand the cards in a deck, which enabled him to play auction, knock, and five-cards. He also learned to fight—the neck hold and the waist hold were new to him. And of course the names of the sexual organs; he had heard the soldiers use these same words at the Christmas parties, but then he had not known their meaning.

Some of the boys already worked in the Ljungdala Glass Factory. They spoke disdainfully about the Catechism and the Biblical History and said that these books were full of lies. Of the young glass workers, few believed in God; Valter was shy among these boys.

Gunnar was said to be the best student, and Valter was proud of his brother. Gunnar could solve the arithmetic problems in his head, and as Valter turned the leaves in his book he knew it would be two or three years before he could do the same. Gunnar wrote so neatly that he could be a bookkeeper, said Miss Tyra. At home he was already writing America-letters since Dagmar had gone away to serve as farm maid; she was now thirteen and would be confirmed next year. Pen and inkstand were locked in the bureau drawer, which was opened only when it was time to write a letter to America. Then Gunnar was allowed to sit with his elbows on the table like a grown-up. Father and Mother stood beside him and dictated what he should write: That they had their health, which was God’s greatest gift on earth, and that they wished the same for those in America. And they hoped someone would soon come home, with affectionate greetings.

Soldier-Hulda could not write or read written text. She had gone to school only three weeks, and after school she had never had any time for further learning. Soldier-Sträng had learned to write in the recruit school, but he wrote badly—grotesque, straggly words, sometimes below the blue line, sometimes high above it. His fingers were so stiff and callous-cracked that he always asked someone else to write for him.

Valter no longer wrote with coal; he had climbed the first step on the writing-ladder and was now on the second: he wrote with slate pencil on a slate. But he was still climbing; he was aiming for pencil and paper. The thought came to him that the Crown which was so rich might help him with this.

“How rich is the Crown, Father?”

“Richer than all others.”

“Richer than Rockefeller?”

“I imagine so.”

Then he asked for the address of the Crown, but Father said it was only officials who got the letters, learned people, like governors and sheriffs. One could, of course, write to King Oscar personally, but probably some lackey would take the letter and read it.

Valter decided that he would not write to the King and ask for paper and pencil; some lackey might take his letter and use it in the royal palace privy.

Instead, he wrote to Rockefeller. He found half of a wheat-flour sack; it was smooth and white and made excellent stationery. He wrote that he was seven years old, that he lived in a soldier-cottage in Sweden. He had only a slate and a slate pencil, and he begged Rockefeller to send him kindly a dollar for paper and pencils. His mother gave him an envelope and he wrote the address: “Herr Mister Rockefeller, New York America.” He gave the letter to his mother, who promised to mail it for him and pay the postage until the dollar came, when she would get back her money.

Rockefeller was the richest man in the world, but a proverb said “the richer, the meaner.” Johannes at Kvarn, the richest farmer in the village, was so penurious that he couldn’t afford to eat; nor could he sleep—he must stay up nights and guard his house against thieves. Rockefeller was said to have a million dollars locked in his safe. He need only open the door to the safe and take out one dollar. He wouldn’t miss one single dollar.

Valter would buy a notebook with part of the Rockefeller money. He had seen notebooks with a pencil fastened to the back. That would look elegant.

He waited some time, but nothing was heard. Had the money perhaps gone astray? But he had printed his address clearly: Soldier-cottage, Strängshult, Uppvidinge County, Province of Småland, Sweden. Or perhaps Rockefeller was busy momentarily. Perhaps he had other payments to meet first. There could be so many things to delay the money. At least Rockefeller had not written that he refused to send the dollar.

Valter waited, but no dollar came. Then he began to have bad thoughts about Rockefeller in America. He must be a thousand times richer than Johannes at Kvarn, and perhaps he was even meaner. “The richer, the meaner.” He wouldn’t take out a single dollar from his safe and give it away. Valter intended to write a second letter to Mr. Rockefeller and tell him the truth. Misers should be told the truth.

Then one day he saw a piece of paper in the dungditch. It was the flour sack with his letter to “Herr Mister Rockefeller, New York America.” Someone had done with his letter what he had feared the lackeys at the royal palace would do if he wrote to the King.

The letter had been lying here in the dungditch all the time. It was not Rockefeller’s fault that no dollar had come.

He reproached his mother for having deceived him.

“You mustn’t be a beggar!” she replied. “Begging is disgraceful! Everyone must take care of himself! That you must learn!”

It was for his own good that his mother had thrown away the letter to the richest man on earth.

Thus Valter learned that each one in this world must take care of himself. He must do the same.

The autumn evenings were bleak and lonely while Father was away for the yearly maneuvers. Mother was afraid of hobos who asked for shelter. She never opened the door to a stranger after dark. She always had Father’s jacket or pants on the line outside to give the impression that there was manfolk in the house. But while Father was away, thirteen-year-old Fredrik was the oldest manfolk in the cottage.

It was at the height of the lingonberry season. One afternoon Mother had gone into the woodlands with Fredrik, and to make sure the smaller children would not open for some stranger, she had locked the door and taken the key with her. Mother said she and Fredrik would pick only a gallon each at a certain moor and would be back before dark.

The three locked-in children—Anton, Gunnar, and Valter—huddled close together at the window looking down the road. It was already growing dark outside. The children pressed their noses against the windowpanes, waiting for Mother’s return. So they had been sitting many afternoons during these gray, monotonous autumn days. As twilight fell, Mother would return. Inside, it was almost dark already, for they were forbidden to light the lamp; they were not allowed to touch matches. Nor were they permitted fire in the stove while alone—Mother was that afraid of fire.

Valter pressed his lips against the cool, hard pane; his breath warmed it. They had nothing to do but sit and look out. Valter and Gunnar had occupied themselves for a while in counting the freckles on each other’s noses, but now they were through with this. Valter was quite freckly, but they had now found out that Gunnar had forty-three more than his brother on his nose alone. Anton, to the envy of the others, had no freckles at all.

Valter sat at the window and observed the blue mantle of night draw closer, the forest’s black wall creep nearer the cottage. Wasn’t someone approaching? Was it Mother and Fredrik? Someone was calling, anyway, loudly and persistently—now plaintively, now shrilly. Anton said it must be a crane on the moor. Valter’s eyes peered through the window, but he could see no one near the moor.

Everything changed with twilight. The gate seemed to flow together with the barn. The gooseberry bushes crouched until you hardly saw them, the top of the pear tree bent its head. And someone was moving in the road; a figure took shape and stepped cautiously through the darkening dusk.

It was a man. Valter saw him first, a huge man, almost as tall as Father. He wore a fur cap, and he stopped at the gate, apparently headed for the cottage. Or would he walk by? Then he opened the gate, and Valter could see that he pulled a cart behind him; with bent body and slow steps he pulled the cart toward the stoop.

“There’s a man coming!” Valter warned his brothers.

Anton and Gunnar took one look through the window, but quickly turned away in fright. How fortunate that the door was locked and that no one except Mother could unlock it, they comforted each other.

But Valter remained at his lookout post. His eyes could not leave the figure in the yard. The man was dressed in a long, black coat that hung all the way to the knees, and his face was all covered with beard, the part Valter could see below the fur cap. On the cart lay a big sack; it must be very heavy, the way the man stooped as he dragged the cart behind him. What might he have in the sack? Now he had reached the pear tree; he stopped and straightened his back and looked toward the cottage. However scared Valter was, he could not leave the window; it was not only fear that he felt; he caught himself wishing that the man would come in.

Anton and Gunnar dared not look out, but Valter told them what he saw.

The stranger struggled on with his heavy cart; it must be an awfully heavy sack, and Valter wondered about it. Now the man had reached the stoop. He looked toward the window with a horrible bearded grin; he leaned the cart handles against the stoop and began to unload the sack.

“He’s coming up on the stoop!”

Anton and Gunnar held on to each other back in the corner, but Valter followed every movement of the man. Particularly the sack—what could he have in the sack? The man put it down on the stoop, panting noisily. Valter could now observe him more closely—a red beard, a crooked nose, lardy eyes. He was looking toward the window, where he had discovered Valter. He made ready to knock.

Valter kept his brothers informed about the man’s smallest activity; they felt far from secure even though the door was locked. Gunnar suggested that one of them should go to the door and tell the man that no one was home, but Anton thought this silly, as it wouldn’t help if the man were dangerous.

Valter was concerned with the stranger’s sack—what could he have in the sack?

He remained at the window, following every move the man made. Now the man was knocking lightly on the door. Gunnar and Anton listened, but could not hear back in the corner.

“He’s opening the sack!”

The man was fumbling with the sack’s long strings, and now they were loose and the sack was open. Valter craned his neck; he must know what was in the sack.

The man stooped and put his hand in the sack. He pulled out something which he held up for Valter to see as he nodded and grinned. And Valter had already guessed what it was—a child’s head!

He yelled to his brothers: “The man took a child’s head from the sack! Just cut off!”

Anton yelled at the top of his voice and scampered to the darkest corner behind the stove. Gunnar crawled under the bed, so afraid he dared not let out a sound. But Valter remained in the window, watching the man with the child’s head in his hand. It was the head of a small girl, with long flaxen braids and wide-open eyes. Valter thought it strange that the eyes should be open. He tried to look into the sack’s mouth—it must be full of children’s heads. But he was glued to the window, he must follow everything that took place outside, the man, the sack, the cart.

Now the man was knocking again; perhaps he was trying to break down the door.

And someone was indeed coming in. But Valter sat quite calmly on his bench at the window and waited for the caller. He was not in the least afraid as they heard steps in the entrance hall. A moment passed, then the door opened. But the man with the sack never came in; instead, Mother and Fredrik entered, their baskets full of lingon from the moor.

Two of the little boys crept forth from their respective hiding-places, crying, trembling with fear. But the third and youngest one remained calmly on his bench at the window, without the slightest sign of concern.

What had happened here at home? Had someone tried to break in while the children were alone? What had frightened the two boys out of their senses?

Anton and Gunnar told the mother between sobs: A horrible man had come with a cart and a sack, and the sack was full of children’s heads that had just been cut off.

But the mother would not believe them. She questioned each of the boys in turn: Who had seen the man with the cart? Not Anton. Nor Gunnar. Only Valter had seen him. He had been sitting at the window the whole time and had told the brothers about the man. Anton and Gunnar had been too afraid to look out of the window. Now they were ashamed of having been so scared.

“Why didn’t you look for yourselves?” asked the mother. “Must you big ones rely on the little one?”

“We didn’t think he was fooling us,” sobbed Anton.

“I did not fool you!” said Valter, hurt. “As truly as I live!”

“You’ve lied and scared your brothers!” said the mother.

“I have not lied!”

“You invented the whole thing!”

“No! I saw the man—as truly as I live!”

“You persist, little one?”

“Yes, I saw him the whole time.”

“You have told a lie. And now you deny having told it. This calls for more than words!”

This time it didn’t help to say “As sure as I live!” Soldier-Hulda went to the fireplace to fetch her rod from behind the damper handle—a bunch of birch twigs. She let down Valter’s pants and switched his behind. It was a thorough beating he received that time. Afterward he felt as though he had been sitting with his bare behind in a stand of nettles. Mother seemed regretful and kind after the punishment: Why must he lie and invent stories so that she was forced to beat him? Think if Father had been home and heard this! He was only seven, yet already an inveterate liar. Didn’t he remember the proverb: “Young liar, old thief”? Did he want to become a thief and spend his days in prison when he grew up?

Valter had not thought that the proverb about the thief might apply to him. Another proverb said: “Begin with a pin, end up with a silver bowl.” So that was how one became a thief: first by lying and inventing stories, then stealing pins, at last by taking silver bowls.

But Valter had not lied. And Mother could not beat him enough to make him admit he had lied. He had seen the man with the cart and the sack. He knew how the man was dressed and what his face looked like. This he could not have known if no man had been there. And his brothers had been scared—Anton had crawled under the carpet. Anton and Gunnar could not have been scared if no man had been there.

But he, Valter, had not been scared. Because he knew that the man was not dangerous. When he no longer wanted to see him, then he was there no longer. He had just walked off as Fredrik and Mother came home. Anton and Gunnar could never have seen the man—no one could have seen him except Valter, because it was his man. He had been sitting there at the window in the twilight, and wished the man from the shadows in the yard. And the man had come. He had enjoyed telling his brothers about him, but it was not his fault that they were frightened.

How foolish that he hadn’t kept the man and his cart to himself! And why had Anton and Gunnar feared the man? He had never said that he was dangerous.

And so Valter learned something that evening: He must keep things like this to himself. He must never tell others, it did not concern them. And he could no longer trust anyone, not even Gunnar. He must forever keep to himself what belonged to him only.

The man with the cart and the sack stayed with Valter for a long time. He wondered about the secrets in the sack. Because it contained more things than children’s heads. It might contain almost anything. He wished to share his discoveries in the sack with someone, but there was no one he could trust.

And then Father returned from the maneuver and brought him a notebook with yellow covers and a pencil in a holder at the back. It was exactly the kind of book he had wanted. And it came at the right moment: in the yellow book he wrote down a story about a man who walked through the world, pulling a cart with a big sack. All people wondered what the sack contained, but the man never opened it, and no one knew. No one except Valter knew, and he wrote a story in his book to tell the secret.

Now he had found the solution—he could confide, yet keep it to himself.

He wrote and told those things that were his own. This writing was not a pretense; it was not for fun; to him it was deeply serious, perhaps the most serious thing that was. There were moments when he felt something must happen; he wished it might happen—and his wish was fulfilled in this way. It was not a surprise to him, nor to anyone else—now that he kept it to himself.

Thus Soldier-Valter had found an outlet for the experiences of his imagination.