The Best Intentions (38 page)

Added to this unusual and extraordinary cold are the trials of wartime life, perhaps not so evident in the countryside as in the towns. Bread and coffee are rationed. (People have been drinking dandelion coffee for a year now). Carbide has disappeared, and there is a shortage of candles. Paraffin is in short supply. But there is timber in the forest, and they can keep their kitchen stoves and tiled stoves going fairly well. Forsboda more or less manages. The Works and the Sawmill are going full tilt; people have enough to eat; they can keep their houses and cottages warm, and ration cards can be disregarded. But it grows dark and still in the arctic night.

Henrik's mother at last pays them a visit. She seems pleased and fairly well. The severe cold is not good for her asthma, but the tiled stove in the guest room burns day and night. Mrs. Alma prefers to sit in a rocking chair with her book or handwork, and Dag plays quietly on the rug on the floor, or stands at his grandmother's knee to listen to her telling a story. Mrs. Alma likes telling stories.

One sunny afternoon at the end of her visit, Alma has a pain in her side and takes her tablets, but they do not help. She gets out of the rocking chair to call for help but falls to the floor. In order not to frighten the child, she laughs a little and says poor fat old grandma is a really clumsy old thing and perhaps Dag should go and fetch Mama or Papa.

But Dag stays where he is, staring solemnly at his prostrate grandmother. “Are you going to die?” Then he sits down on the floor quite close to her and puts his hand on her forehead. She closes her eyes and thinks that perhaps this is rather good, this too. But the pain in her left side returns, and she is finding it hard to breathe. She opens her eyes
and says quite sternly to Dag, “You
must
fetch Papa or Mama now, or some other grown-up who can help your grandmother into bed.”

Reluctantly Dag gets up and goes off to find Mama in the kitchen. Anna has just put Jack into the tub and is washing him with soft soap. Mejan is making cabbage soup, Petrus sitting at the kitchen table with a book about Indians, and Mia has gone off on the sled to the post office.

Alma is picked up off the floor. Her lips are blue and pains increasing, creeping out toward her shoulder blade, and again she is finding it difficult to breathe. Together Henrik and Anna undress the heavy woman and get her into bed. Petrus and Dag stand out of the way, solemnly watching this strange drama but with no particular terror. Jack has crept out of the tub and shaken the water off his coat, and the kitchen is rather wet. Then he goes and hides under Mejan's bed in the maid's room.

Henrik tries to telephone the doctor, but the exchange tells him the lines to Valbo are down because of the snow, but says they'll no doubt be repaired by the end of the following week. Because Henrik is a good skier, it is decided he will set off immediately. He expects to be back with the doctor within less than two hours. Mejan looks after the boys (and Jack, who has to be rinsed and dried). There is still a little cocoa left at the bottom of the tin. Mejan makes hot chocolate and cuts two big slices of bread. Calm once again descends on the parsonage. The wind has dropped over all that whiteness, and the sun is resting on the edge of the forest. The guest room (which is actually the nursery) is still light. (Dag is sleeping in his parents' bedroom during his grandmother's visit, which he likes.)

Anna is sitting by the bed holding the old woman's hand. As the pain subsides, she dozes off for a few minutes. Total silence reigns in the sky and on earth. The sun shines. The dining room clock strikes two. Mejan and the boys laugh. Jack barks. Then it's quiet again.

Alma:
Anna.

Anna:
Yes.

Anna leans forward, quite close, and sees the soft hand crisscrossed with fine lines and scratches, the closed eyelids trembling slightly, her breathing scarcely audible, her pulse slow and getting slower, a little saliva in the corners of her mouth, the thin hair in a gray strand across the low, broad forehead. The hand.

Alma:
Do you think the boy was frightened?

Anna:
I don't think so.

Alma:
I mean when I fell over?

Anna:
He's in the kitchen having hot chocolate with Petrus and Mejan. And Jack.

Alma:
I'm so clumsy. I lost my hold. It was an awful crash.

Anna:
It was silly that no one heard anything.

Alma:
Do you think Henrik'll be back in time?

Anna:
It's not that far. The doctor has a horse and sleigh, and the road's been plowed.

Alma:
Are you going to leave Henrik?

Anna:
No.

Alma:
I have such a strange feeling.

Anna:
We've had our difficulties. But everything's fine now.

Alma:
I don't understand why I worry.

Anna:
Things are fine now, Grandma.

Alma:
Henrik is . . . no.

Anna:
Lonely?

Alma:
Shut in . . . no. I don't know. I don't know.

Anna:
I'll never leave him. I promise you.

Alma:
You see, it was like this . . . when Henrik was really small and his father had died, and I had no idea how we were going to survive . . . (
Falls silent
.)

Anna:
Yes.

Alma:
I did a terribly stupid thing.

Anna:
We don't need to . . .

Alma:
Yes. It's so terrible. For a whole year we lived with Henrik's grandfather on the farm. Henrik's grandfather and his brother lived up there, you know. Hindrich was a minister and the other one, the tall one, was a member of Parliament. Not then, but he became one later on. We had nowhere to go, and so we were allowed to live on the farm. I stood in the doorway and watched Hindrich thrashing my boy. He
was about the same age as Dag is now, three or so. It was supposed to be the way to bring him up. Hindrich said it was for the boy's own good. Henrik's grandfather was watching but said nothing. I was beside myself. I just stood there.

Alma is talking calmly and clearly, with no emotion, as if the memory of those punishments had been emptied of all feelings, a strange image that for some reason it was important to bring back.

Anna:
Did it often happen?

Alma:
Hindrich was obsessed with “upbringing,” as he called it. His children were grown. A daughter, the stay-at-home daughter, didn't protest. She just said, “You can be sure he means well. It won't do any harm. We were thrashed, too, and it didn't do us any harm. You're so soft,” she said. “The boy's become as soft as you. He has to be hardened.” That's how she talked. Henrik's grandmother was kind, but she was afraid and she never dared . . . yes, occasionally.

Anna:
But you didn't stay?

Alma:
No. One day I took the boy with me and went to Elfvik, you know, the sisters at Elfvik. It wasn't as grand in those days. But grand enough. Blenda lent me a little money. She was the sensible one. She didn't want me to live there, because she didn't like me. But she lent me some money. So we moved to Söderhamn.

Anna:
That was brave of you.

Alma:
Brave?

Anna:
Would you like something to drink? A little tea?

Alma:
Yes, please. My mouth gets so dry from those tablets.

Anna puts Alma's hand back on the quilt. She is lying quite still. The sun is shining but has sunk between the trees, and the shadows in the room deepen. The cold is green above long, narrow, motionless clouds.

In the kitchen, all is calm and cheerful. Petrus is reading aloud to Dag as they sit close together at the kitchen table. Mejan has sat down with her handwork. The cabbage soup is steaming fragrantly. Jack is lying flat, newly scrubbed and exhausted, on the floor. The day sinks.

Mejan:
How is the old lady?

Anna:
I think she's asleep.

Mejan:
She was in quite a lot of pain.

Anna:
Yes, I'm sure she was. We must make her some tea.

Mejan:
It won't be long.

Anna:
It's time for Dag's rest now. I'll take him up and put him to bed. Henrik and the doctor should be here any moment now.

Recovered, regained ordinariness. Calm voices, practiced actions, work, and duties. Anna persuades her son, who reluctantly leaves Petrus and the story. Jack moves his tail to show that at least he's awake, though very tired. Mejan brews lime blossom tea, which she pours into a large flowery breakfast cup, and then puts a few long hard-baked scones on a plate. Anna lifts Dag into her arms and carries him up the stairs. “I want to walk by myself,” he says sorrowfully but doesn't bother to resist. Now he is standing on his bed, jersey and trousers hauled off. “Do you want to wee?” “No, I've weed.” “You've a big hole in your stocking. We must change them.” “No, thank you, new stockings prickle.” Down into bed. “There we are; give Mother a kiss; that's it. Where do you want
your
kiss? Oh, on your nose. All right. There!”

Anna puts the green screen round Dag's bed. “Is Grandma going to die?” the boy says quietly. “No, she's not. The doctor's coming any minute now.”

“If death comes and fetches Grandma and loads her up on a cart, might he perhaps fetch someone else at the same time?” says Dag. “What are you talking about?” says Anna, still standing by the screen. The light glimmers strongly in the white room, the light from the snow shadowless and floating in and out through the windows. “Maybe he'll get the wrong person and take me instead. Or you, Mother.” “Death doesn't come with a cart,” says Anna. “Where did you get that from?” “Father read it aloud from a book to the ladies!” “Oh, and you heard that, did you? But that's just a story! Death doesn't come in a cart, and death doesn't get the wrong person. If Grandma dies, it'll be because she's so tired and in such pain.” Dag listens with attention to his mother's explanation. Then he says: “Do children die, too?” Anna says nothing for a moment, thinking she hears Henrik outside the house, taking off his skis and stamping the snow off his boots on the porch.

“Father's back now,” says Anna. “Go to sleep, little boy; then we'll talk about all that one day when we have more time.” She strokes him hastily over his forehead and cheek, and he dutifully closes his eyes.

Henrik:
The doctor wasn't at home, but Sister Blenda promised to tell him the moment he got back. Some accident at the Forge.

Mejan:
The old lady is asleep. I took the tea tray up, and she said she felt sleepy and wanted to go to sleep, but she took a little tea. I helped her.

Henrik is on the porch unlacing his boots, his face red with cold. He has dragged in some snow, and his short sheepskin coat and cap are lying on the woodbox. He's snuffling.

Anna:
I sat with her for a long time, and she was quite clearheaded. Maybe the attack is over for now.

Henrik:
I'll go up and look in on her.

Anna:
Better if I do! You're terribly sweaty. I've put dry clothes out for you in front of the stove in your room.

Henrik:
Can we have dinner a little earlier today? I have a meeting at six o'clock with the churchwarden and the others down at the chapel.

Mejan:
We can eat in ten minutes.

Anna:
I was going to go with you. It was about the Christmas bazaar. You'll have to tell them why I couldn't come.

Henrik pads up the stairs to change his clothes, and Anna cautiously opens the door to where Alma is sleeping. She sees at once that the old lady is dead, but to make sure, she goes up to the bed to check, quickly and professionally. She closes the dead woman's eyes, crosses her hands over her chest, and brushes the hair back off her forehead, which is still warm and slightly moist. Then she lights a half-burned candle on the bedside table and another on the tall, green chest of drawers. She goes over to the bed and looks at the dead woman, trying to work out what she is feeling. Yes, solemnity. Pity. The majesty of death. Out of your womb, Henrik was born.

She hears Henrik's steps on the stairs and goes out to him, closing the door behind her. He sees at once what has happened and for a moment stands without moving on the last stair, then takes Anna's right hand and starts crying, loudly but with no tears. It's a strange and penetrating sound. At first Anna is puzzled, then she pulls him with her to the dead woman's room. He stops in the doorway, his weeping suddenly over, as if forbidden, to be controlled as soon as possible.

Anna:
She fell asleep. You can see that.

Henrik:
Yes, but alone. Alone. She was always alone.

At the beginning of November, the countryside around Storsjön is hit by blizzards that, with a few interruptions, continue for almost a week. The cold is like a searing flame over the people and their dwellings, etching its way into the very marrow of their bones, thirty degrees below zero and snowstorms. A kind of hell, like the end of the world.

One morning at dawn, Anna vomits into the pail. At first she thinks it is that herring, oily and horrible. Then she vomits again and turns sweaty with fright. It's not the herring. Henrik is now holding her forehead, standing there in his long underpants and vest. He has just started shaving and has shaving soap on his face. “It's that sausage you had on your bread last night.” “I didn't have any sausage.” “Well, I don't know then. Maybe you got a chill on your stomach out in the privy.” “No, I don't think so,” mumbles Anna, pulling down her nightgown and exposing her left breast. “Look!” she says. “What? What am I supposed to see?”

Anna:
Can't you see it's become . . . ?

Henrik:
Prettier?

Anna:
Idiot! Can't you see it's different?

Henrik:
Overnight?

Anna:
Supposing I'm with child!