To Siberia by Per Petterson
It was all over in an instant. On the church tower the clock still showed half past ten, and it struck once as we walked past. At the same moment we heard fog horns hooting from the harbor and fog came drifting up Tordenskjoldsgate, Lodsgate, Havngate, it fell silently over Fiskerklyngen in Gamle Fladstrand where the hero Terje Vigen landed in Ibsen’s long poem. Soon only the streetlamps rose clear and shone down on a mass that devoured everything, people and houses, we could not see more than three meters in front of us. The lights around us were hard to make out and Jesper stayed where he was; stretching out his arms like a blind man he said:
“This is what it must have been like when the Man from Danzig was shipwrecked. He must have been frightened. He thought he knew where everything was, and then it was all sheer chaos. Put your hand in front of your eyes, Sistermine, and spin around three times, then tell me which is the way home.”
I did as he said, I spun around so I almost fell down, I opened my eyes and peered in all directions.
“I don’t know.”
“Then anything can happen.”
He still stood with his arms out feeling around for our route as if in doubt before finally deciding and saying:
“Come on, we’ll try this way,” but I do not think he was ever in doubt. We turned right and I thought I could glimpse the shape of Tordenskjold’s House on Skippergate, and that street led back the way we had come, just farther east and nearer the sea. We walked carefully, reverently, I thought, as if at a funeral, and then the foghorn struck our bodies, for there was nothing to cut it off, there was nothing but cold vapor everywhere, my stomach felt shivery and the damp air covered my face and made me shudder even though my coat was warm and covered my knees.
“It’s cold,” I said.
“It’s colder in Spain.”
“What are you talking about? Oranges grow in Spain.”
“Not in the mountains. The earth is frozen so hard there you can’t dig trenches, so the Fascist hunters have easy targets. The eleventh battalion has so few weapons left now the new volunteers have to wait till a comrade falls before they get a gun.”
I tried to fill the fog with uniformed men in a frozen Spain, but the fog was only fog.
“And d’you know what they write home about?”
“No.”
“They run around in the snow with hardly any weapons freezing their butts off and then they write: ‘Send more chocolate!’ Damn it! Maybe we should rob a shop. We could do Fru Sandbjerg’s in Felledvej, she’s a stupid cow anyway. Her shelves are bursting with chocolate.” His arms cut through the fog, they were still stretched out, he turned, walked backward, and I said:
“Would you like to have gone?”
“Yes.”
He was too young, I knew, but if I tried hard I could see the top of the cranes at the shipyard sticking up out of the blanket of fog and I heard the echo of our shoes on the cobblestones, and now everything was of a greater age than us both and all that was ours had sunk into the earth, was dead and buried except for Jesper’s voice. I closed my eyes and the night filled with Italian bombers and blown-up bridges, black smoke and gray stones against gray snow and roofless houses against a snow gray sky and General Franco’s forbidding bandolier and names like Jamara, Guadalajara, Brunete, and Teruel in ruins and always black horses dead in the snow and Jesper dead in the snow with his hands frozen fast in a victorious movement; “Viva la Muerte! This way, Sistermine, we’ll soon be home.”
But many never came back, and would anyone inherit Jesper’s gun?
I felt ill, I said:
“Jesper, I feel ill, I’ll have to sit down.” And I sat down on the steps to a house, although I had no idea where it was. The walls were glistening with cold, but I unbuttoned my coat at the neck and took off my scarf. I’m going to be sick, I thought, and then I was sick, hard lumps of milk at the side of the steps. It hurt, my throat was blocked and I thought of Grandfather in the cow barn and Irma in the red dress and Lone in her red dress, both of them faceless in the same mirror in a dark room that was the whole world, and then I began to weep.
“Well, damn it, my dress is blue,” I said aloud, suddenly angry, and I was sick again and felt better at once and still colder.
“I’m freezing.”
“You’re always freezing, what will you do in Siberia? Come with me to Morocco. We’ll go as soon as the war’s over.”
“It’s different in Siberia. It’s not like here, they wear different clothes and have warm houses built of wood. Anyway, Franco crossed over from Morocco, I’ve read that.”
“Not the Fascists’ Morocco, the Arabs’ Morocco, you fool. I’m going to Meknes, Marrakech, to the Morocco of the caravans and the Moors.”
“Send me a postcard,” I said. I wiped my mouth and started to laugh. He bent down and tied my scarf around my neck, put my beret on straight, pulled my coat collar up.
“Better now?”
“Yes,” I said, and he took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Which war?” I said.
“The Spanish one, and the one that will follow it if the Fascists win.” But that was enough war for tonight, I put my arm through his and we walked through the fog that was familiar now, the town fell into place, the shipyard and fish-meal factory and the fish auction was on the left and the slaughterhouse straight ahead and Damsgaard the butchers on the right, I could smell myself forward.
“I know where we are,” I said. “Why did we have to walk halfway around the town to get back here? We could have gone straight down Lodsgate.”
“We had to avoid the Bible belt, that’s Lillemor’s minefield, anything could have happened. Now we’re safe.”
Said the candidate for the International Brigades.
Havnegate runs parallel with Lodsgate a block farther south, from the crossroads where Danmarksgate runs into Søndergate, to the square in front of the Cimbria Hotel by the harbor, and together the two streets and the houses between them form our town’s counterpart to Nyhavn in Copenhagen. With the possible exception of Aftenstjernen this is where all the sins congregate. Færgekroen, the Ferry Inn, and Tordenskjolds Kro are on Lodsgate; at the Cimbria the bar at the rear is called Lodsgate 16 by finer folk and Rompa, The Ass, by everyone else, after that part of the body which is vital when you need to rid yourself of superfluous fluid. On Havnegate there is a new-style bodega and the Vinkælderen, the Wine Cellar, two houses up from the hotel and one staircase down. The only threat is my mother who has moved in here and observes life from the window on the first floor when she is not behind the counter of the dairy. Those who can bring themselves to raise their eyes when the night is far advanced can see her behind the curtain, Bible in hand, looking out, with her lips moving in prayer or exorcism.
“It’s not much fun to be caught out like that,” says Jesper, for sometimes she goes downstairs and out to the gateway, and more than one person who has had one too many drinks has felt her wrath and sensed the flames of hell licking tentatively beneath his soles. It’s hot, they think, and it’s embarrassing, so when Jesper is going out at night he always makes a long detour and approaches his objective from another angle, even when he is only going one street away.
And that is what we’re doing now. We negotiate Lodsgate on the lower side and walk along beside the Cimbria Hotel, there’s laughter inside and people sitting at the windows, an icy wind sweeps in from the sea and blows away the fog and I can see the masts of the fishing boats tossing like inverted pendulums and hear them chafing against the sides of the wharf.
The first thing I see on the way down the steps to Vinkælderen is Uncle Nils. He is wearing a suit and a newly ironed white shirt and he is not in clogs but narrow black shoes I haven’t noticed before. It’s too late to turn around, people behind me are pushing and Jesper keeps a tight hold of my arm. Uncle Nils hangs up his coat on a hook in the cloakroom, he straightens his tie and glances up the steps. He smiles.
“Why, here we have Jesper,” he says, lifting his hand in salute.
“Hi, Uncle Nils,” says Jesper. I do not say anything. I am waiting, stiff with fright. I’m only just fourteen and on the way down to the Vinkælderen at half past eleven at night and my uncle stands on the steps.
“Good evening, young lady.” He bows deeply and I giggle without meaning to and bob carefully. I look at Jesper, but he’s busy taking off his new coat, and then he helps me with mine like a perfect gentleman, looking delighted the whole time.
Uncle Nils is different tonight. He smiles and chats, but out on the farm and in the fields and on the driver’s seat behind the horse he’s always moody with a deep furrow between his eyes, and he hardly ever utters a word. Now the furrow has vanished and he is looking great, less than a year older than my father, for he was Grandmother Hedvig’s youngest son, and she died when he was born. I can see from him that my father isn’t that old. He’s already had a schnapps, or two or three, he is red in the face and he bows again and throws out his arm.
“Shall we go in?”
“What’s it like in there?”
“There’s a good few down there.”
“And you’ve had a few, too, most likely,” says Jesper, and I am afraid Uncle Nils will be cross at that, but he is not.
“That was a good one,” he says. “I’m celebrating, you see, I’ve made an important decision, so it called for one or two under the hat.” He puts his hand to his head, he’s hatless, his short fair hair is curly and he has put something on it which makes it shine in the lamplight. He chuckles and throws out his hand again.
“After you, ladies and gents. Don’t let’s waste precious time.”
Jesper runs his fingers through his curly hair to make it tidier, I can’t see it makes any difference. He pulls at his sleeves and takes my arm again and we go down yet another flight of steps and into the room. It’s long and narrow and hot after the raw air of Havnegate. There are shallow windows just under the ceiling, and at the far end there’s a dance floor with a dais in front with deserted instruments on it, the band is having a rest or has not yet started. Four men in identical jackets are at the bar, each with a beer in his hand. The place is more than half full, but along the wall at the far end there are some empty tables. It’s a long way to go and we have to walk past a lot of people. Uncle Nils points and wants to go in. I stop, I can’t do it, I do not feel well.
“I must go to the toilet.”
“Go on then,” says Jesper, “I’ll stay here just outside and wait for you. Take all the time you need.”
The toilet is near the entrance, to the right of where we stand. There is a washbasin in there and a mirror and two cubicles. I go into one and sit down on the lavatory lid. I sit there a few minutes thinking, maybe I’ll be sick again, perhaps that’s what it is. I try, and a little bit comes, but mostly because I am forcing myself. Then I pull the chain and go out to the basin and splash my face with water. I look at myself in the mirror. I have a high forehead and a snood above my temples. It is practical with hair like mine but it makes me look well scrubbed and shiny and childish sometimes. Like now. I lean forward. A pale girl of fourteen, not a second older. I look down at my dress to see if there are any spots of sick on it, but there are none, and then someone comes in. I see her in the glass, a lady in a green dress, her blond hair shines and she smiles with red lips.
“Hello,” she says. I do not reply, I don’t know her. She stands there behind me. I think, she’s going to touch me, and then she puts her hands on my shoulders and says:
“Let’s have a look at you.” I turn around passively. The only light is above the mirror, and I throw a shadow over her face as she bends forward and looks closely at mine. She is an adult and very attractive and I can’t manage to feel anything but fourteen.
“May I?” she says and doesn’t wait for an answer. I do not give one. She takes off the snood and puts it in her mouth, uses her fingers as a comb and pulls my hair forward, it’s a good feeling, no one has done anything like it since I was little, my head just follows and I look down at the floor. It’s best like that. Then she puts the snood back, straight above my ear so my bangs hang loose at the side, one ear is hidden by hair, the other uncovered. I often have my ears showing with a rubber band around my ponytail at the back, but it has never felt like it does now.
“Up with your mouth and tighten your lips,” she says. She’s slightly taller than I am, she has green eyes and high cheekbones and small ears close to her head. I put my head back a little, afraid she will think I’m surrendering to her, open my mouth a little and tighten my lips against my teeth. I do not know why I let her go on, I’ve never seen her before, an unknown face is close to mine and I close my eyes as if she’s going to kiss me and I would like her to. Some women are like that, I am not, but when something touches my lips I start to tremble. I open my eyes and she smiles and says:
“Stand quite still now,” while she carefully draws the red lipstick across my mouth,—“there.” I close my eyes again and do not tremble any longer. She is welcome to go on.
“Rub your lips against each other, then you can look in the mirror.” I do as she says; with a strange soft feeling, wanting to keep my mouth slightly open. I turn around and look in the mirror. I look grown up and a little wistful, like someone with a secret, hidden years that cannot be talked about, fantastic events maybe, someone who has traveled far and seen things no one but she understands. I smile at the reflection and draw a breath. I think, my mother has never used lipstick.
She is behind me in the mirror, she lifts my hair, lets her fingers slide through it and our eyes meet in the glass. Someone ought to clean that mirror, I think, but even so she sees who I am, and it does not matter.
“Jesper was quite right,” she says, “it didn’t take much.”
“Do you know Jesper?”
“I certainly do.” She lets her eyes slide over me and smiles with the red mouth that is like mine now.
“You’ve got a good body, you’re fine here,” she says and takes hold of both her breasts with hands that have red nails, laughs aloud and pushes them up in a way I would never have done, and then I blush.
“That’s right, now you’ve got a bit of color in your cheeks. That’s how it should be.”
“I had to!” says Jesper, “we wouldn’t have been served otherwise. You looked like a scared twelve-year-old. You don’t look like that now,” he grins. “You look just smashing.” I blush again and straighten my back, and we walk together in among the tables, people turn in their chairs and watch us on our way to the long wall where Uncle Nils sits. He waves to us.
“At least she didn’t have net stockings.”
“Net stockings? Jytte? What are you on about? Why the hell should Jytte wear net stockings?”
Uncle Nils is moving into town. He has found work at the shipyard and a little attic flat on Søndergate. He pours beer from the bottle into his glass, raises the glass, and says:
“Here’s to a new life. Raise your glasses!” Jesper and I do that and we drink together. I’m so thirsty I could drink anything. All the moisture has left my body, it vanished with the fog out in the streets and the beer is bitter and cold and refreshing.
“Ah, it’ll be good to get away from that old witch, if you’ll pardon the expression. I’m never going out to Vrangbæk again, not even for Christmas. I’m never going to pick up a pitchfork again, never sit behind a horse as long as I live. I’m going to buy a scooter as soon as I’ve got enough money, and until then I’ll walk. Everywhere! A free proletarian who won’t take shit from anyone! Ho, ho.” He downs the rest of his beer in one gulp and Jesper follows suit and they slam down their glasses on the table and say in chorus:
“Well, that didn’t hurt, did it?” And my beer doesn’t hurt either, even though I drink slower and don’t slam down my glass. I catch myself sitting smiling at the woman called Jytte a few tables away, she winks at me and I smile more broadly and it does not matter that Uncle Nils calls my grandmother a witch. If I had known it was all right
“But here we sit with three empty glasses, that wasn’t what we ordered, was it?”
“No, no, that’s all wrong, we’ll soon change that,” says Uncle Nils and picks up the bottles in one hand and waves them in the air so the glass clinks to tell the waitress to bring more. Soon three full bottles are on the table. Uncle Nils is in fine fettle and pours out for us before we can do it ourselves, and then we have to skål again.
“Welcome to the town then, Uncle Nils,” I say, I feel I ought to. “First it was our father, and now it’s you. Maybe everyone will come soon,” but instead of raising his glass Uncle Nils stops smiling. He leans forward so one of the bottles falls over, he is drunk, beer runs over the table, but he does not care, he just grips my arm and squeezes it so I am almost frightened.
“But don’t you two understand anything? Magnus wanted to stay at Vrangbæk. He wanted to be a farmer and nothing else. He slaved like a dog to please those two, I’ve never seen anyone work so hard, it was painful,” he says, his eyes fill and the musicians are on the dais starting to play so he has to lean farther forward while two couples make their way on to the dance floor, and he raises his voice:
“But that damned witch wouldn’t look at him, would never touch him or talk to him, and as soon as he could manage on his own he was sent off to town. And the old man let it happen, blessed be his memory, that randy old goat, if you’ll pardon the expression.” Uncle Nils stops talking, he looks down at his hand clutching my arm, the skin is white on both sides right down to the fingers, and he lets go and says:
“I beg your pardon, I’m sorry, I hurt you, I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, rubbing my arm cautiously, the blood runs again and it smarts and stings right up to above the elbow.
“Yes, it is. I’ve had too much to drink tonight, I must go home now.” He rises heavily, another bottle falls over and Jesper catches it in flight and gets to his feet too.