Petter waits. It’s about Fredrik’s parsonage. In winter so cold it’s almost uninhabitable. The curtains blow right out into the room. The rag rugs ripple in the draft through the floor. Raspberry bushes are forcing their way between the floorboards in the parlour. The tile stoves have been condemned, the brickwork is cracked. The water buckets are covered with ice in the mornings. The children would be better off in an igloo, which would keep them warmer even in the Arctic. But the crux of the matter is this: the decision was made to build a new parsonage back in his predecessor’s days. The place was chosen, and the plans were drawn. The church’s Central Fund came through with its usual contribution. The minutes of the parish committee show a decision to provide the congregation’s share in the form of lumber and labour. But the execution of this decision is a joke! Nothing has been done. Nothing is being done. And because the decision’s been made to build a new parsonage, no repairs can be made to the old one. Every meeting of the committee is a battle. Every meeting ends with postponement. If he weren’t their opponent, he’d be impressed by their delaying tactics. Such calculated infamy! Such insinuations! The members of the congregation have to pay for their own labour and materials when they build a house, but the priest wants to put others to work so he can lounge about in the finest house on the island.
“It’s not about me!” he says. “I mean, it’s not my house they’re going to build, it’s the property of the parish and it will benefit every priest who comes here. They refuse to see that.”
“Goodness!” says Petter. “I haven’t even given a thought to next winter. We’re going to have a draughty time of it ourselves.”
“A decision has been made. It’s right there in the minutes. There are letters from the church’s Central Fund. It’s my official duty to see that a new parsonage is built. I’m neglecting my duty if nothing happens. I mean to stay here until the new parsonage is almost finished, then we’re going to move. They’ll realize it wasn’t for my own sake I pushed the project through.”
Petter greatly admires all this determination. “Moving is the last thing I have in mind,” he says. “I’m only afraid that someone else will go after the post before I’ve taken my exams and can apply to be permanent vicar myself.”
That sends Fredrik Berg into gales of laughter. “And who would that be? They haven’t had anything but temporary pastors out there since I don’t when.”
“But there must be other people like me,” Petter says. “I won’t rest easy until I’ve got the paper in my hand. But how I’m going to have time to study with everything we have going on is more than I can imagine. I’m only one person, although I need to be at least two.”
Fredrik Berg is also studying for his pastoral examination— not, however, so he can stay but so that he can find a post somewhere else. They agree that the paper is a good thing to have, because it gives them more room to manoeuvre. But they also agree that it’s a real nuisance having to prepare for yet one more examination, and pull together a dissertation, while at the same time struggling on as a lonely priest in a remote parish where you can only laugh hollowly at the thought of finding textbooks in the local library. Those books are going to cost a pretty penny, but the lack of time is even worse.
“Most of all, the lack of blocks of uninterrupted time,” Petter expands on the theme. “Of course I’m used to that, but somehow I thought it would be different when you controlled your own time. How dumb can you get?”
Fredrik Berg sounds resigned. “You said you had only one child so far. We have three. And we’re careful not to have more. I never thought, either, that life could be so stressful. Wife and kids is the most natural thing in the world, I thought. Human beings have lived in families for thousands of years, you think the routine is built in. I simply couldn’t imagine how chaotic it would be.”
Petter laughs, what else can he do?
Fredrik Berg looks happy, too, but he means what he says. Petter has a moment of terror—what if the demands on his time never lessen but only increase? How will he deal with it? But on the other hand, it’s different with Mona and Sanna. There’s no one quite like Mona. And he couldn’t live without Sanna. There’s no chaos with them. An oasis. Life. Quickly he returns to the subject of the pastoral examinations, picks up the discussion of the heavy volumes they have to plough through, the dissertation topics they’re considering.
“It frightens me,” Petter says, “that out here, theology seems less relevant than a lot of other academic subjects.” Fredrik agrees. Amazingly little of what they studied is of any use to them in real life. For their work as pastors, they should instead have studied finance and had someone really good teach them how to manage with minimal resources.
“Like Mona,” says Petter with a full heart. “She studied home economics and keeps books that take my breath away. When it comes time to discuss the annual budget in the vestry, I’m going to ask her for advice. And of course I’ll look at what they’ve done before.”
“They’ll like that,” Fredrik says. “If you try anything new, your life won’t be worth living.”
“Yes, I know,” Petter says. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m no reactionary, but in this case I really don’t think it’s necessarily an improvement to replace customs that have evolved over a long time and worked out their kinks with new ones, just because they’re modern and up-to-date.” He looks a little embarrassed and goes on. “Take the liturgy, for example. It’s taken a thousand years to polish it, and I doubt I could come up with something better in an afternoon.”
He gives Fredrik a friendly little box on the shoulder—just kidding. But at the same time, he thinks fleetingly of Post-Anton and it occurs to him that the customs on the Örlands may date back further than he can imagine and that if he violates them he will be defying not only the living but also people long since dead. “I’m glad I’ve got my organist,” he says. “He’s a wise man, very experienced, very diplomatic. He’d do very well wherever he was. It’s really a tremendous waste of talent that people as strikingly intelligent as many of the people are out here get no education beyond elementary school.”
A shadow passes across Fredrik’s profile. “Like the war,” he says. Lightly, but with feeling.
Petter draws a quick breath. Is it possible that Fredrik thinks the way he does? “I’m glad you brought it up!” he bursts out. “For years I’ve been thinking about all the ones who never got a chance. Full to bursting with talent and special knowledge. Full of hopes and expectations. Shot, maimed. Tragic on the personal level, a terrible waste for the nation economically.” He pauses, cautiously. “I suppose you were in it?”
“Yes. As a chaplain. I was ordained just in time for the outbreak of the Continuation War. I happen to know that you were a chaplain as well.”
“Only at the very end, when the war was already over, and even then only with the troops on Åland. A real sinecure, compared with what you fellows went through.” He feels compelled to add a few words about his illness as an explanation. “I had a medical exemption during the war. I had TB when I was in middle school and it was there in my papers. So I was in the Home Guard and the food supply commission and the fire brigade instead. I’m sure it saved my life. I managed to finish my studies, with delays, of course, and I was ordained in 1943. I often had a bad conscience because I thought Hebrew and exegesis were so boring, but of course a lot of men at the front would have given anything to be in my shoes.”
Fredrik looks at him with sympathy. He’s been feeling a slight superiority simply because Petter was never at the front. That experience gives you a sharpness and a vigilance that Petter lacks. “As for me, I was in Eastern Karelia first, then on the Isthmus. I can tell you, it tests your faith. And as if you weren’t wrestling with your own doubts, the boys see to it that you’re really forced to confront your beliefs. For example, I led prayers with the ones who wanted to pray before going out on patrol, and of course I prayed for success in their work and asked God to send them back in one pie
ce. Immediately someone shouted, ‘What kind of a priest are you who doesn’t pray for our enemies and those who persecute us?’” Fredrik pauses for effect, and Petter obliges.
“What did you say?”
“I said he was right to put his finger on one of the most important points in Christianity, a fundamental principle that we find difficult in times of war and calamity when our existence is under threat from an enemy pursuing an unjust cause. Maybe our Lord didn’t mean that we should pray for our enemies’ success but that we should think about their welfare and pray that their hearts might be enlightened so that they cease to make war against us and persecute us and agree to a just peace.”
“Well said,” Petter says.
“Some of them laughed and a couple of guys from Österbotten shouted ‘Amen!’, but there was one man in real distress who said, ‘Many of the Russians we’re shooting at are here because they have to be, not because they want to attack us.’ ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘That’s why we put our cause in God’s hands. It’s he who can see the whole picture. We’ve been put here to do our duty as soldiers. And as soldiers, we have every right to pray for help in doing our duty successfully. If we can also pray for our enemies’ enlightenment and conversion, so much the better.’”
He drops his slightly preachy tone and goes on. “I guess you never struggle harder with your conscience than you do in a war. Do the things we’ve been taught really hold up? What do we actually know about God’s plan for the human race? How far does our loyalty to the state go? For me, it was terribly ominous to cross the old border during our advance in 1941. Nevertheless, I had to publicly thank God for our progress. I was appalled by what the Germans were doing down in Europe, but I still had to pray for our comrades in arms. Then in 1943, I was convinced that we had to make peace in order to save whatever could still be saved. But as a chaplain I was nevertheless required to do my best to instil courage and optimism in boys being sent straight to their deaths by the men commanding the army, who could see everything was going to hell but still didn’t have the guts to start negotiations.”
The genial Fredrik Berg has set his jaw and doesn’t look at Petter. His expression says it doesn’t matter to him in the least what Petter thinks. But Petter has straightened up and seen a community of thought. “You mean you sympathized with the peace opposition? So did I.” They turn and stare at each other with real pleasure. What good luck that they’ve been placed in adjacent parishes! Two young priests with such similar values! They talk at length and from the heart about the war and the terrible choices Finland faced, and about their own agony. It is almost unbelievable that now, after all of that, they sit and speak openly in a free country, when things could have turned out so very much worse! They talk about the everyday happiness of living in peace, with young families and realistic hopes that their lives will get much better.
As regards the larger situation of the church, they cannot avoid talking about the increasing secularization and godlessness and, almost with nostalgia, about the powerful trust in God that people felt during the war—so quickly pushed aside in the material strivings that have followed it. But here, alone together and in almost identical circumstances, they can put such thoughts to the side and speak instead of the pleasures of peace and the joy of believing in the future.
The advantage of being an island priest is that you control your own time and can make up neglected duties later. Petter will return to the Örlands with Post-Anton that evening, so they have the whole day to themselves. The early summer weather is beautiful. They take a turn to the parsonage and have afternoon coffee, then out again and have time to wander across all of Mellom while they continue their conversation and lay the basis of a lasting friendship. When they were in school, Fredrik would have been an older boy with the right to snub and make fun of a little kid like Petter. But childhood comes to an end. As adults, they can be equals, share experiences, discuss career, family, life, books, open themselves without being mocked or isolated.
Perhaps Fredrik is not always so pleasant and full of smiles. When they stop by the parsonage, his wife says, “It’s nice to see that Fredrik’s found a friend and colleague he can talk to.”
“And that I have a colleague like the priest at Mellom!” says Petter warmly. “I feel much better knowing we can talk on the phone any time we like. I think I’m going to need that.”
“It’s so far to the dean that we’ll just have to get along without him. So here and now let’s create our own Archipelago Deanery. We’ll confer and make our own decisions. What do you say?”
“Brilliant!” Petter agrees. “We’re going to have to elect you dean for the time being—until I’ve grown into my clothes a bit and can run against you.”
They laugh, two rogues who have found a means of diversion, and Fredrik’s wife looks a bit less nervous, as if she knows that she won’t be criticized when Petter has gone. Now the two men go out for another walk and manage to cover the Mellom pastor’s entire domain and all its villages and harbours, woods, hills, and beaches. All the same, not as pretty as the Örlands, Petter thinks, with considerable secret pleasure. He delivers his thank-yous with warmth and sincerity, asks the children to forgive him for monopolizing their father all day, assures Mrs Berg that he will long remember her hospitality with deep gratitude. It’s hard to know when Post-Anton will appear, but he means to go down to the dock and read the newspaper until the boat arrives, for it’s now high time for life in the parsonage to return to normal!
Fredrik would like to go with him to the dock and sit there all night if it came to that, but he has office work to do, and when he’s at home it’s his job to read the children their bedtime stories. “Now don’t forget that we’re going to stay in touch,” he admonishes Petter almost anxiously.
Giddy from all this friendship, Petter wanders down to the steamboat dock. It’s already getting colder, and naturally he forgot his sweater on the boat. Before sitting down in the lea of a boathouse wall, still warm from the sun, he stands looking out to sea, white as ice in the failing light. There are streaks of gold, violet and black in the sky, and they draw grooves of darkness and gold across the smooth surface of the water. It is utterly quiet, if by silence we mean the absence of human activity. Far out, there are strings of eiders clucking and ahoohing. As if the entire space before him was actually populated by powers and spirits alongside those that are visible.
Post-Anton comes precisely when he sees in his mind’s eye that the priest, whose sweater is lying on the hatch cover, has begun to shiver and wrapped a newspaper around his shoulders. Petter hears the thumping of the diesel for quite a long time but thinks it’s a larger boat farther out. He stands up to look, and it is Anton, now with passengers on the boat and a lot of freight that he’s picked up in Degerby for the Co-op. The passengers have climbed down from the Stockholm boat in the Degerby roads and are on their way home to the Örlands after spending all winter in Sweden. They are talking and laughing, full of anticipation, and the priest is finally a minor figure in the crowd. No chance to continue this morning’s conversation with Anton, and that may be just as well. On thinking it over, he realizes that it dealt with experiences for which he has not quite got the words.
Chapter Eight
THE PASSENGERS IN POST-ANTON’S BOAT are a sign that the summer season has begun. The priest is right that his congregation now has other things to think about. By comparison with the newcomers, he is already naturalized, a familiar figure on his bicycle and in the pulpit. Everyone greets him heartily, but conversations are brief. The hay is what everyone thinks about now, hoping they’ll get enough rain to keep the grass from burning up where it stands and that it will then stop raining so they can get it in before it mildews and rots. They present their wishes clearly, and of course their priest knows enough to stand in the pulpit and pray for good weather and the growth of the soil.
The crops are of great interest at the parsonage as well. The pastor’s wife is especially attentiv
e. She grasps things quickly and is aware that out here you have to fight for every blade of grass if your cows and sheep are going to have enough fodder to get them through the winter and spring. For the moment, her crew of animals is doing well. Goody has produced a heifer that they mean to keep, and Apple has had a bull calf that they’ll fatten over the summer and slaughter in the autumn—cash in hand plus a little meat. After the calving, the milk and butter situation is brighter, and Mona cranks the separator happily, saves the cream and churns it while the family drinks buttermilk and skimmed milk and soured milk. She looks forward to the haying, a clean, fresh outdoor labour at the prettiest time of summer. She and Petter working side by side to produce visible and lasting results. It smells good, and it is very satisfying to fill the barn with good, fresh hay while threatening rain clouds line up in a row.
It is always a mistake to anticipate pleasure, because naturally she and Petter are not left to work in peace. Even before midsummer, the first small sailboats arrive from Helsingfors. During his school years, Petter looked on people with the flag of the Nyland Yacht Club on their boats as indescribable snobs and bullies, but when they glide in to the church dock to tie up and jump ashore in their white sailing trousers, they are pleasant and talkative and full of admiration for the beauty of the journey and of the Örlands. Of course they are welcome to tie up at the church dock, it’s a pleasure to have them! And yes indeed I’ll show you where the well is. They invite him for coffee in the cockpit and are neither scornful nor pitying when he turns down the cognac. Together, they celebrate the fact that they can finally move about freely and sail among the islands again. While they’re talking, another boat sails into their little bay, and they call from one to the other. The new arrivals sit on the edge of the dock and are given a mooring brandy. Lovingly they look at their boats and trade survival stories—how close the boats came to being destroyed in some bombardment, how sadly leaky and corroded they were when they could finally begin to restore them, the sails mere mouldy rags. How hard it was to get hold of what they needed. Who’d have believed you’d have to buy linseed oil and varnish and canvas on the black market? They exchange the names of dealers and contractors while they caress the railings and admire the shiny hulls, red as gold in the evening sun.
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