This is a story I posted in my general thread in the Writer's Forum many a month ago. Now I wanted to put it up here in its entirety as well so it is more widely available.
My Grandfather's Island
One: The Summers of My Childhood
I tied up my borrowed boat to the rickety old wooden jetty and stepped ashore, sure to take my things with me from the boat. I glanced at my wristwatch – 17.45. The autumn evening was starting to get dark and the weather was ominous, with nearly black clouds rolling in from the east, obscuring the last light of the sun, on its way to settle down for the night with a red glare on the horizon.The wind was picking up, too. A storm was coming. Why the hell did I come so late, and why on such a night, too? Sighing heavily, I checked my flashlight. It was working perfectly.
...
The first time I saw the island of Palosaari was in 1947. I was twelve, a thin, bookish city boy. I had lived in Helsinki for all my life. Since my father, Petteri, had died in the war four years ago, it had been just me and my mother Hanna, a young widow who supported us with her job as a shop assistant at the Stockmann department store. Life wasn't easy during those years, especially for those that had lost the family's main breadwinner to the flames of war. Even a boy of twelve could see my mother was struggling to keep us afloat financially. She did an admirable job, though. Even if the food we ate was simple and often monotonous, I never had to go hungry. Even if the clothes I wore were often old hand-me-downs, they always were clean and well-ironed. The rented rooms we lived in might have been small and cramped, but she made them comfortable, homely and warm. And she always had a smile for me, even when she seemed like she was exhausted herself, stumbling home from work in the evenings.
By age twelve, I was getting accustomed to being sent to the countryside for the summer. Many children I knew spent the summer at a farm owned by relatives, somewhere to the north. It eased the parents' financial burden to let someone else pay for their food for the summer months. For me it meant going to Kuopio, many hours on the train and then a boat to a small farm owned by my mother's relatives there, a youngish couple with two boys my age. The farmer was a kind, soft-spoken man with a wiry frame. Sometimes, he used to sneak a smoke behind the barn when his dragon of a wife wasn't looking. To get caught would have meant hell to pay. On his farm I first learned the value of hard work, looking after cows and hens, weeding the garden, making hay. The farm boys teased me for being such a ”little gentleman” with my city manners, but all in all I could not complain – to balance the work, we would swim a lot, have time to play in the woods, eat well, go to the sauna every night and then go to sleep early, to wake up to another morning when the rooster willed us to.
This summer, though, it would be different. One day in the spring my mother had told me that a letter had come from my paternal grandfather, Aleksanteri, inviting me to spend the summer with him at the island he lived on in Lake Saimaa in Eastern Finland. Upon hearing this, I was immediately apprehensive – I had never met Aleksanteri, and it did not strike me as a nice prospect of not spendng the summer with Seppo and Risto, the farmer's boys who I had started to almost consider my half-brothers these last summers.*
My mother was adamant, though. It was time for me to meet my grandfather, she said, and get to know my father's side of the family a little better. ”Your father would have wanted this”, she said, glancing at the photo of the smiling young reserve officer in uniform, holding his young wife's hand with a mischievous smile on his handsome face. ”He did not always see eye to eye with his father, but when he left for the front he made me promise that if... something happened to him, you would learn about his family's history.”
My mother looked at me seriously.
” - Your grandfather is a fine old gentleman. I have not told this to you before, but he sends me... us money, to help us get by. Every now and then I get an envelope from him, with a small note wishing that we are well. Your grandfather's money bought you those shoes you like so much, and your backpack. The way I see it, it is only decent that you go and spend time with him when he has been kind enough to offer his invitation. You are going to Lappeenranta this summer.”
And that was that. It was with mixed feelings I sat in the train with all the other people travelling to the lakeland, chugging along with what then seemed to a young boy like an impressive speed towards Lappeenranta. I was still a bit peeved about not getting to go to Kuopio, and I was equally anxious and nervous to meet my mysterious grandfather. It did help a bit that it was a beautiful June day, and that the benevolent sun was showing me the best side of the small towns and fields and forests and lakes (and yet more forests and lakes) I saw from the train window as we passed them. After stepping off the train at the Lappeenranta station, the old one they call the Emperor's Station because it was built in 1885 specifically for Tsar Alexander II's visit in the Finnish Grand Duchy, I just stood there alone for a while, holding my meagre luggage of a backpack and a small suitcase, being confused of coming to a place I never saw before. The people offloading from the train bustled around me, and the conductors and other railway workers went about their business.*
Now I just had to find my old grandfather. It took me a while, but as I looked to my left, I saw a tall, old man with a full grey beard standing next to the railway station's wall, in turn scanning the scene with his eyes. His attire was old-fashioned and it seemed a bit too warm for the glorious summer weather all around us. Not seeing anyone else around who could fit my mother's description of my grandfather, I took a few tentative steps towards the somewhat scary man. Taking this as his cue, he started towards me as well. We met halfway through the platform, me holding my suitcase in front of me, the old man taking time to get a good, measured look at me.
He looked me sternly in the eye and held out his hand.
” - I am Aleksanteri Väärä. You must be Konsta - you look very much like your father.”
Swallowing a lump in my throat I held out my hand, too, to shake the one he was offering.
” - Good day, I am Konsta Väärä, good to meet you, Mister Väärä.”
The old man's face changed a little, and it was like a hint of a smile visited the corner his mouth, then. I could not keep my eyes away from his impressive full beard.*
” - No need for any misters - or sirs, for that matter. You can call me Aleksi, or better yet, call me grandfather.”
”- Yes, mist.. I mean, I will do that, grandfather.”
He smiled slightly but very soon grew serious again.*
” -Now, let me take your bag there, we'll have to walk a bit to reach my boat.”
...
As I started up the path towards the buildings, I could see nobody – no human – had been on the island for many years. Passing the ruins of the old groundskeeper's cottage I saw that nature had taken over – without knowing where the ruined and collapsed building was, I might not have noticed it at all, not in this low light. It was starting to rain now, on top of the surprisingly cold wind, and after taking a moment to get my bearings I made a beeline towards the abandoned boat yard's main building. It seemed to stand, still, and hopefully it would shelter me from the storm somewhat. I was startled to see some movement in the bushes to my left, and I swung my flashlight into that direction – to find myself face to face with a rather seedy-looking squirrel, in turn staring at me like I was trespassing on its private property. Which I was doing, for all intents and purposes, I thought. Perhaps the squirrel had more right to the island than I had – this was its family home after all.
Two: Shelter from the Storm
The man in a dirty civil servant's uniform had a job to do. Taking a better grasp of the shovel, he could not help thinking that this surely was not the kind of work he should be doing – and this most definitely was not a place he should be spending any time in. Not if he valued his life and not if he wanted to have any hope for the salvation of his immortal soul.*
He stood alone in the semi-darkness.
Looking at the pile of bloody bodies in front of him, he was suddenly startled by a slight bit of movement among them. An ice-cold finger traced a route along his spine as he saw a bloody hand rise from the shallow grave. His face very pale he stood very, very still, with his shovel raised in his hand, careful not to make a move.
The hand was followed with a face, and a pair of pleading eyes looked at the man with the shovel. The face was equally covered in blood and grime, but the man it belonged to seemed very much alive.
” - Help me”, the man said weakly.
” - For the love of God, help me”.
...
I remember the rhytmic put-put-put of the small inboard motor powering the wooden boat as we started from the lakeshore near Lappeenranta, towards the island of Palosaari. As I sat at the bow, my grandfather steered the boat with a practiced hand. My mother had told me he had lived on the island for many, many years and that the boat was the only way to get to the mainland. To me it seemed old but serviceable, in a rough-and-ready fashion, something like the man himself. While to a young boy the bearded man sitting silently in front of me seemed ancient, at 71 he still appeared to have some strength left in him. And a sense of purpose, it struck me as I looked at him. I could not explain it at the time, but this old man looked like one who had a Purpose, a Direction in his life.*
I looked at a pair of terns flying over us and I spied an old passenger ship steaming towards what I though must the be Lappeenranta harbour. I tried to spot a ringed seal, the most famous example of Saimaa wildlife, but could not catch a sight of this likable creature. So in my thoughts I was that I was almost startled when the bearded man finally spoke up, having spent most of the way in silent contemplation himself.
” - There it is, my island.”
And there it indeed was. Larger than I had thought, the Palosaari island spread out before us. We were heading towards a small jetty on the shore, while a small collection of bigger jetties and piers stood, unused, to the left of it. The island seemed mostly forested, but from here on the lake one could see a number of buildings jutting out from between the trees. They were all painted red – and the biggest one of them had a large, faded white text on it, saying OY PALOSAAREN VENEVEISTÄMÖ.
My grandfather later told me that a boat yard had operated here until the year 1918. Started sometime in the 19th century, the yard had been known for its good quality and reasonable prices all around the Grand Duchy and as far as Stockholm and St. Petersburg. The Palosaari boat yard had experienced something like a small boom during the early years of the First World War, delivering various boats to the Russian state and navy. After the Revolution, in 1917, the orders had stopped cold and then the Russians even refused to pay the bills for the already completed and delivered vessels. The company had already been heavily indebted (my grandfather said the owners were good with boats but useless with money) and with no funds left to pay the workers, and no possibility to take further loans, the boat yard had had to declare bankrupcy soon after the Finnish Civil War. There had been talk of restarting the business in the 20s and again in the 30s, but nothing ever came of it. So the yard just stood empty, its buildings slowly decaying and the name of the company fading away with each consecutive winter.
...
The small group of railway officials wanted nothing to do with the civil war. Their responsibility to the nation ended with making the trains run on time. But as railways were a vital asset for the revolutionary as well as counterrevolutionary forces, these men had been swept up in the events. For the last few months, they had been working for a group of revolutionaries who claimed to fight for their rights and their liberty but in actual fact acted like a pack of ungodly, murderous thieves.
And now their recent abominable act. A travesty, a crime against the laws of God and men both. It was too much for the former station inspector and his two comrades.
But maybe they still could do good, to redeem themselves in the eyes of the Almighty looking down at them from Heaven. In the dark, they escorted the two weary, wounded refugees they had near-miraculously saved from the carnage to the railyard where another one of their comrades was preparing the railway engine.
” - The bastards are all passed out from the drink”, the engineer said to them in low tones, with a melancholy smile on his face.
” - They have been commemoriating their recent exploits. Not even a sentry is awake.”
As the small group started putting some distance between themselves and the town they were escaping from, the former station inspector contemplated the fact that before the war, he never would have though stealing a train and just driving it away in the dead of night could be so easy.
...
From the jetty I followed my grandfather to the cabin where he lived. It was actually bigger than the farmhouse in Kuopio I had been accustomed to – to call it a cabin was probably a misnomer, the old man conceded. Before it had been turned over to him as the island's guardian and groundskeeper, it had been the summer villa of one of the boat yard's former owners. Taking in the mood at the old villa, I could see he told me the truth. It was an elegant building with big windows and a nice big fireplace in what would have been the living room. It also seemed somewhat ratty, all told, and it was very clear that someone, and a man at that, had been living in it alone, perhaps for decades. The bohemian mess I saw around me was a bit shocking at first, after the tight ship my mother kept at home. The bearded man probably saw all this from my eyes - he waved his hand apologetically and uttered a few words in lieu of a welcome to his home.
” - Your own room is to the left. Let's leave your things there and we'll have something to eat. I have some bread and butter, potatoes – and smoked whitefish. Cold spring water to drink. That all right with you?”
I nodded. I only now realized I was ravenous after travelling most of the day. I had eaten the sandwiches my mother had packed for me soon after I left Helsinki.
As we ate, the bearded man spoke about the island. It was his duty to watch over it and the buildings there, he told me in between pieces of bread laden with butter and smoked whitefish. He had been hired for this job in 1918, by the administrator of the property of the bankrupt boat yard. And now, 29 years later, he did the same job. He very rarely had any contact with whoever paid his wages, but as long as the wages kept coming, he would stay at his post. He told me that as his guest I could roam freely on the island – provided I remembered one single rule.
” - And that rule is: never go into the main building, you know the big one with the text on the wall, without me. It is terribly unsafe, it might fall down any time. You might hurt yourself or even get killed if it collapses on you! I couldn't bear having to tell your mother that you hurt yourself stupidly climbing in the rafters or exploring the cellars. So understand this: don't go to that building alone!”
He looked at me sternly, almost angrily, and nodding my head vigorously I promised that I will respect this rule. We even shook hands on it.
I looked at the bearded man and thought of the idea of spending 29 years alone on this island. It might well play tricks on a man's mind. He surely must be happy to have someone to keep him company, someone to talk to for a change, I thought.
...
The small group had to abandon the train in the morning because the railway ahead had been sabotaged. The former station inspector was surprised they had managed to come this far. Only once their right of using the line had been questioned on the way, by a group of revolutionary soldiers at a small railway station, but the railway official had managed to conjure up some of his old bureaucratic officiousness to use as a sword and shield to ensure the young soldiers that it was vital for the revolutionary cause that this train gets through. His heart had pounded madly when they left behind the armed men who could have killed them all then and there.
Climbing off the train, they still had a long way to go to reach what he thought would be a place of safety. A shelter from the storm that was the civil war raging all around them. It would be slow going – they would have to keep to the side roads, as it would be so much harder to fool revolutionary patrols now that they were off the train. It did not help that both the man and the woman they were escorting were injured, and for the woman especially, walking briskly for long distances proved difficult because of a wound in her leg.
The former station inspector took out his small icon of the Holy Mother and prayed for the safety of himself and the small group of people along with him. Only higher powers would help them now, he thought, in this valley of the shadow of death.
Three: One Day in the Summer
I had to go around the old main building to find a way in – the roof had partly collapsed, after all, but most of the building was still intact, if only so-and-so. The rain was drumming on the roof and the wind was shaking the old structure to make the roof creak and groan on top of my head.
With the help of my flashlight I looked around the main hall, where miraculously a half-finished old motor boat stood, still looking as if its builders had just left yesterday to return to their work after the weekend, when in fact it was now well-nigh 60 years since skilled boatbuilder's hands had last put down the tools left scattered around the boat. Seeing the three dismantled inboard motors in the corner made me smile, briefly – with my mind's eye, I could just see a tall, bearded man stripping them for parts, humming contentedly by himself.
I had been wondering for a while if the batteries in my flashlight would have enough power in them to last throught the night, and now I had an idea. Remembering when I had last visited the place, I made my way towards the foreman's office. And there, like I remembered, an old oil lamp hung from the ceiling. Even more surprisingly, it still had some oil in it and, lo and behold, I managed to light it up. I then went around the building, with the flickering light from the oil lamp casting huge, monstrous shadows on the walls.
...
What my grandfather called his job seemed to consist of him going around the island several times a day, checking all the buildings for God knows what, and generally standing guard. To me it seemed he was like an old soldier fighting a war everyone else had already forgotten. He even had an old rifle at the cabin, which he sometimes slung on his shoulder when he went on his jaunts around the island. Most days, I went along with him on some of his walks. He would talk to me about his life and the history of our family, both on those walks and when we went fishing, which was another of his daily rituals. We would check the fish traps he had around the island, and we would go fishing for pike, whitefish, bream or perch. There was a small potato field and a garden on the island, too, and I helped him with them.
Even though a lot of the food we ate could thus be found on the island and the surrounding waters – and never have I eaten so much fish than on that summer – for some things, we had to take the boat to the mainland. Once or twice a week, we then would start up the old Wickström inboard. It took certain tricks to get the motor running, and some more to keep it running well, and the old man tried to teach me all he knew about it. He told me that there were several of these old motors at the boat yard's main building, originally acquired to be installed on motor tenders to be sold to the Imperial Russian Navy, and over the years he had broken down three of the forgotten motors for parts.
” - One of the perks of the job”, he told me with a wink, ”for as long as those parts last, I will never have to buy another motor in my life.”
After a while, the old man felt confident enough to send me to town alone with the boat, and I was very proud that I managed to keep the motor running and remembered to get all the groceries the old man had asked for. On one of these outings, in early July I believe, I was packing up the tin cans and loaves of bread and whatnot, when a man I had seen before at the shop walked up to me. He had heavy-rimmed glasses and a thick moustache. His coat was worn and dirty.
” - Hi there, sonny. You the boy who's living with old man Väärä on the island?”
He looked somewhat shabby and had dark stubble on his cheeks. I didn't like the smell of his breath.
” - Yes, I am his grandson. I'm Konsta Väärä, pleased to make your acquintance, Mr....?”
The man flashed a predatory smile.
” - My name's Jauhiainen. So, you are the old coot's grandson, eh? How well do you know the old man, Konsta? Do you know that he's... not right in the head?”
He cocked his head and looked at me, smiling that unnerving smile of his all the while. The words stuck in my throat.
” - Walking that damn island with his rifle... Waving and shouting at passing boats in some sort of a foreign uniform... He's a damn Nazi, that's what he is. And out of his bloody mind, to boot.”
” - That is not true!”, I said to the man, finally able to open my mouth, ”you are a mean liar!”
The man shrugged his shoulders, his smile not wavering. As he started to open his mouth again, another man intervened, a man in his flannel shirt and heavy boots very reminescent of the farmer I knew in Kuopio.
” - Leave the boy alone, Kalle. Everyone knows you have something against old man Väärä, but I'll be damned if I let you harass innocent kids with your bloody vendetta.”
The man had put his hand on Jauhiainen's shoulder. The shorter man in glasses backed away.
” - No reason to get riled up, Juha, get your Fascist hands off me”, he said belligerently.*
” - I was just educating young Konsta here so he gets... a more comprehensive picture of his crazy old grandfather.”
The man who looked like a farmer shoved Jauhiainen so that the man almost fell down.
” - Take a hike, you bloody Communist. Everyone here knows you for the coward and traitor you are. You are not fit to educate a dog, let alone a fine, well-mannered boy Konsta here seems to be.”
The shorter man again opened his mouth, but then caught himself, muttered something and turned around to stalk away. I looked at the man who had faced him. He shook his head.
” - I am sorry about that. Konsta, was it?”
I nodded.
” - Konsta Väärä. Pleased to make your acquintance, Mr...”
Smiling, the man offered his hand.
” - Juha Ahonius. Good to meet you, young mister Väärä.”
He glanced at the door the man with a foul breath had just slammed shut behind himself.
” - I wouldn't put a lot of stock into that man Jauhiainen's words. He has a beef with your grandfather, on account of old Aleksi being a staunch anti-Communist. You know that, right?”
I nodded. The old man had said things about revolutionaries I had been shocked to hear. He seemed to consider the Soviet Union to be under the spell of Devil himself.
” - Kalle there is a Red. His whole family is – I think his father died in the civil war, and he never got over it...”
I looked at the floor.
” - My Dad died in the war, too, in 1943...”
The man looked at me, seemingly unsure what to do next. Then he nodded his head.
” - I am sorry to hear that. I lost my brother, too. This is something men like Kalle there should understand – he is not alone with his loss. This land is full of men like you and me, and like your grandfather...”
The man shifted his weight uncomfortably from side to side. The female shop assistant came to our rescue. She tousled my hair and handed me a piece of candy.
” - Come on now, chief. I'll get your groceries together, and I am sure Juha here can give you a lift to your boat with his tractor... You keep it at the Mäkelä jetty, right?”
I nodded. She smiled happily to me and Ahonius both.
” - Sure”, the man said, seemingly snapping out of his reverie, ”thank you, Sirkka.”
When we reached the boat the farmer helped me to get the Wickström going. He looked across the water towards Palosaari thoughtfully.
” - Konsta”, he said quietly, ”your grandfather has always seemed like a decent man when I have had dealings with him, but he does have something of a reputation as an eccentric and a recluse... His right-wing, religious views are well known.”
He rubbed his forehead.
” - And then there are those who say that the island is haunted – the Reds killed some people there during the Civil War, and people around here talk about strange things happening there.”
I must have looked at him with my eyes wide, because just then he looked at me and flashed a wide smile.
” - Just silly stories, I am sure. Ask your grandfather about the island, he surely is the foremost authority on its history. For now, I bid you a good day and hope we'll soon meet again.”
He took off in his tractor, touching the brim of his cap with his finger, what he must have thought was a reassuring smile on his face.
For me, it would be a long trip back to the island.
...
The storm was not letting up, rather to the contrary. I again cursed my stupidity for coming here on this night, of all autumn nights I could have chosen. By and by, gathering my courage, I made my way towards the steps down to the cellars.
There was a reason I had come to the island today, after all.
I knew that the building had rather large cellars below it. The old man had warned me about them being treacherous, back in the day. Of course I didn't truly believe him, then. But what might have been mere hyperbole to scare an impressionable kid back then might be more true after the ravages of 30 years the building had endured since – at least the parts of it that were above ground seemed a lot worse than I remember them being in 1947.
Finally reaching the stairwell downstairs I opened the door very carefully. Even if prepared, the creak from the rusted, unoiled hinges still made me nearly jump out of my skin.
Four: Dead Comrades
Looking back to that rainy July day, the man never really forgave himself for abandoning his dying friend like he did, to escape the clutches of the revolutionaries himself. Sure, the man had told him to go, to run, while he sat there, bleeding, propping a military-issue rifle towards the muddy road to shoot at the revolutionaries should they try to follow them.
Maybe he should have stayed there and died with him on that road, on the edge of the areas the revolutionary and counterrevolutionary troops were contesting. Fought on his side to the last with all the four bullets he had left to his Mosin-Nagant rifle.
But then again, he had a higher purpose, one he had started to believe had been handed down from Heaven Above. Miracles, after all, were not that common, especially not in this day and age.
And so, stupidly, he raised his hand in a final salute to the wounded railway engineer and grabbed the reins of the stolen carriage, rousing the thin, pale horse it was hitched to. The man and woman lying down in the back of the carriage were so quiet he had to check they were still alive. They were.
Bleeding himself from a cut in his head caused by a bullet's near miss, the former station inspector took the horse and carriage towards the border, as fast as he dared on the poor road. He hoped the horse would have the strength left in him to take them the last remaining kilometers.*
He prayed to God they all would have the strength to make it to safety.
...
The days were warm and sunny, and like all summer days in my childhood, they were long. I explored almost all corners of the island, finding birds' nests, small hidden caves and all kinds of interesting pieces of machines and boats. It was almost like a paradise for a boy of that age – the only downside was the lack of more boys of that age to play and explore with. With less work to do than on the farm, I would read old books the bearded man gave to me, about cowboys and indians, adventure, machines and wonders of the world.
When the sun had to give way for the rains, we would sit in the cabin with the old man, with logs burning in the old fireplace. There was no electricity on the island, so the small radio ran on batteries and in the nights the only light in the cottage came from oil lamps and candles. And the fireplace, of course, which was the biggest one I had ever seen. I could have walked in it without bowing my head.
” - Konsta”, the old man asked me on one of such rainy afternoon, after we had eaten some fried perch with the ever-present boiled potatoes.
” - What do you remember of your father?”
I told him all I could – how I only saw him when he came home for a holiday from the front, once for a longer period of time because he had been wounded in his arm. I always thought he looked like a hero in his uniform, with his lieutenant's rank tabs and the medals on his chest. He rarely smiled, though. My mother had told me that before the war he would not stop smiling and joking. He had been so handsome and funny, my mother told me, that all the girls she knew had been in love with him – and she had been the lucky one to walk down the aisle with him, to marry him. But now, now he was solemn and quiet. And in the night, he would wake us all up by thrashing around in his bed and suddenly shouting something in his sleep.
To me he always was friendly, but felt somehow distant. Once he cried when he embraced me, and that had scared me deeply. My hero of a father, this rock of male strength, wiping tears from his eyes... I don't know if I remembered this right, but I thought it was the last time I saw him. Some time later, the message was brought to my mother that Lieutenant Petteri Väärä had died in the line of duty, fighting for the Fatherland and the freedom of the Finnish people and been posthumously awarded the Cross of Liberty, Second Class. My mother set the medal on the side table next to the picture of her and Dad, and there it was until the day she died.
Of course I might not have had the words to tell all this to the old man at the time, but, well, at least I would have wanted to.
” - We rarely met, me and your father”, the bearded man said.
” - His mother died soon after we moved here, and when Petteri was only some months old. I could not take care of him on my own, how could I, and that is why I gave him to my sister, your great aunt, to raise as her own child. Has your mother told you this?”
I nodded.
” - Yes, grandfather. Everyone needs a mother, and a stepmother is better than no mother at all.”
” - Quite so. But still... Now I find myself sorry that I did not visit him more often... I always thought I have time... That he is still a young man... But then came the war.”
He looked at me mournfully.
” - I have seen war before. I could have known – I should have known.”
The old man looked at me, with the fire from the fireplace throwing dancing shadows on the walls. The rain drummed on the windowpanes.*
He smiled, and somehow it was both reassuring and a bit scary.
” - And that is why I invited you to spend the summer with me. You are young, and you have your life in front of you. Me, I am an old man, I will never know how much time I still have left...”
” - Grandfather...”, I started.
” - Yes, I know. I probably have several good years in me left. But you can never be sure, and with the Communist devils still holding sway in Russia, we never know when another war is upon us. You know they are fighting in Russia even now, from the radio reports.”
We had been listening to the radio a lot, and indeed the news from the USSR were that the Soviet leader, Stalin, had died in June and now there were running battles on the streets of Moscow between various Bolshevik factions looking to take over the reins of the Soviet state after him. There were also revolts in progress in several Eastern European countries and Soviet tanks were reported on the streets of Prague and Budapest. Back home, apparently the Communists were protesting almost daily in Helsinki now.
To be frank, I was worried about my mother.
Me, Konsta, at age twelve, then thought it was my responsibility to help this old man feel better about the world.
” - Grandfather, we miss Dad a lot, me and Mother. But we make do, the two of us. We are all right, despite everything.”
I remember that I could see a kind fire lighting up in the old man's eyes.
” - I am glad to hear that, Konsta. I am glad. Remember, if there is any way to help your mother...”
I looked at him and smiled.
” - But grandfather, you are already helping us! Mother said you are sending money to us almost every month, and that helps us a lot.”
The old man looked back at me, now suddenly confused.
” - No, you are mistaken. I have never sent money to your mother.”
...
Crossing the border turned out to be the easiest part. As the former station inspector took his horse and carriage next to the border crossing with a large if tattered red flag flying over it, only one bored revolutionary bothered to come out of the hut to ask what he had in the back. As it was covered, he was eying it greedily.
”- Corpses, taking them back home to be buried. It is bloody business trying to work the railways these days, too”, he said, indicating his filthy uniform so that the man could see he was a railway official.
The revolutionary took a peek below the canvas cover and backed away quickly.
”- Why the hell you cart them around for? Just bury them somewhere, you idiot!”
He looked at the man riding the carriage like he was a madman.
”- I promised to get them home. Promise is a promise.”
The revolutionary shook his head and waved towards the contested border.
”- All right, go ahead. But I need your shoes first.”
The former station inspector raised his head slowly.
”- You need what?”
The man gestured towards his feet.
”- Your fine shoes. Call it a toll”, he said, smiling a broken smile and raising his rifle for effect.
The man on the carriage looked at him in silence, took off his boots and threw them to the ground. As the revolutionary warrior started to pick them up, the former station inspector took the reins and led the horse forward, towards safety.
The horse was already exhausted. It, too, had not eaten in days. Slowly, ever so slowly they crossed the small bridge into the land the driver called home.
[filler]
My Grandfather's Island
One: The Summers of My Childhood
I tied up my borrowed boat to the rickety old wooden jetty and stepped ashore, sure to take my things with me from the boat. I glanced at my wristwatch – 17.45. The autumn evening was starting to get dark and the weather was ominous, with nearly black clouds rolling in from the east, obscuring the last light of the sun, on its way to settle down for the night with a red glare on the horizon.The wind was picking up, too. A storm was coming. Why the hell did I come so late, and why on such a night, too? Sighing heavily, I checked my flashlight. It was working perfectly.
...
The first time I saw the island of Palosaari was in 1947. I was twelve, a thin, bookish city boy. I had lived in Helsinki for all my life. Since my father, Petteri, had died in the war four years ago, it had been just me and my mother Hanna, a young widow who supported us with her job as a shop assistant at the Stockmann department store. Life wasn't easy during those years, especially for those that had lost the family's main breadwinner to the flames of war. Even a boy of twelve could see my mother was struggling to keep us afloat financially. She did an admirable job, though. Even if the food we ate was simple and often monotonous, I never had to go hungry. Even if the clothes I wore were often old hand-me-downs, they always were clean and well-ironed. The rented rooms we lived in might have been small and cramped, but she made them comfortable, homely and warm. And she always had a smile for me, even when she seemed like she was exhausted herself, stumbling home from work in the evenings.
By age twelve, I was getting accustomed to being sent to the countryside for the summer. Many children I knew spent the summer at a farm owned by relatives, somewhere to the north. It eased the parents' financial burden to let someone else pay for their food for the summer months. For me it meant going to Kuopio, many hours on the train and then a boat to a small farm owned by my mother's relatives there, a youngish couple with two boys my age. The farmer was a kind, soft-spoken man with a wiry frame. Sometimes, he used to sneak a smoke behind the barn when his dragon of a wife wasn't looking. To get caught would have meant hell to pay. On his farm I first learned the value of hard work, looking after cows and hens, weeding the garden, making hay. The farm boys teased me for being such a ”little gentleman” with my city manners, but all in all I could not complain – to balance the work, we would swim a lot, have time to play in the woods, eat well, go to the sauna every night and then go to sleep early, to wake up to another morning when the rooster willed us to.
This summer, though, it would be different. One day in the spring my mother had told me that a letter had come from my paternal grandfather, Aleksanteri, inviting me to spend the summer with him at the island he lived on in Lake Saimaa in Eastern Finland. Upon hearing this, I was immediately apprehensive – I had never met Aleksanteri, and it did not strike me as a nice prospect of not spendng the summer with Seppo and Risto, the farmer's boys who I had started to almost consider my half-brothers these last summers.*
My mother was adamant, though. It was time for me to meet my grandfather, she said, and get to know my father's side of the family a little better. ”Your father would have wanted this”, she said, glancing at the photo of the smiling young reserve officer in uniform, holding his young wife's hand with a mischievous smile on his handsome face. ”He did not always see eye to eye with his father, but when he left for the front he made me promise that if... something happened to him, you would learn about his family's history.”
My mother looked at me seriously.
” - Your grandfather is a fine old gentleman. I have not told this to you before, but he sends me... us money, to help us get by. Every now and then I get an envelope from him, with a small note wishing that we are well. Your grandfather's money bought you those shoes you like so much, and your backpack. The way I see it, it is only decent that you go and spend time with him when he has been kind enough to offer his invitation. You are going to Lappeenranta this summer.”
And that was that. It was with mixed feelings I sat in the train with all the other people travelling to the lakeland, chugging along with what then seemed to a young boy like an impressive speed towards Lappeenranta. I was still a bit peeved about not getting to go to Kuopio, and I was equally anxious and nervous to meet my mysterious grandfather. It did help a bit that it was a beautiful June day, and that the benevolent sun was showing me the best side of the small towns and fields and forests and lakes (and yet more forests and lakes) I saw from the train window as we passed them. After stepping off the train at the Lappeenranta station, the old one they call the Emperor's Station because it was built in 1885 specifically for Tsar Alexander II's visit in the Finnish Grand Duchy, I just stood there alone for a while, holding my meagre luggage of a backpack and a small suitcase, being confused of coming to a place I never saw before. The people offloading from the train bustled around me, and the conductors and other railway workers went about their business.*
Now I just had to find my old grandfather. It took me a while, but as I looked to my left, I saw a tall, old man with a full grey beard standing next to the railway station's wall, in turn scanning the scene with his eyes. His attire was old-fashioned and it seemed a bit too warm for the glorious summer weather all around us. Not seeing anyone else around who could fit my mother's description of my grandfather, I took a few tentative steps towards the somewhat scary man. Taking this as his cue, he started towards me as well. We met halfway through the platform, me holding my suitcase in front of me, the old man taking time to get a good, measured look at me.
He looked me sternly in the eye and held out his hand.
” - I am Aleksanteri Väärä. You must be Konsta - you look very much like your father.”
Swallowing a lump in my throat I held out my hand, too, to shake the one he was offering.
” - Good day, I am Konsta Väärä, good to meet you, Mister Väärä.”
The old man's face changed a little, and it was like a hint of a smile visited the corner his mouth, then. I could not keep my eyes away from his impressive full beard.*
” - No need for any misters - or sirs, for that matter. You can call me Aleksi, or better yet, call me grandfather.”
”- Yes, mist.. I mean, I will do that, grandfather.”
He smiled slightly but very soon grew serious again.*
” -Now, let me take your bag there, we'll have to walk a bit to reach my boat.”
...
As I started up the path towards the buildings, I could see nobody – no human – had been on the island for many years. Passing the ruins of the old groundskeeper's cottage I saw that nature had taken over – without knowing where the ruined and collapsed building was, I might not have noticed it at all, not in this low light. It was starting to rain now, on top of the surprisingly cold wind, and after taking a moment to get my bearings I made a beeline towards the abandoned boat yard's main building. It seemed to stand, still, and hopefully it would shelter me from the storm somewhat. I was startled to see some movement in the bushes to my left, and I swung my flashlight into that direction – to find myself face to face with a rather seedy-looking squirrel, in turn staring at me like I was trespassing on its private property. Which I was doing, for all intents and purposes, I thought. Perhaps the squirrel had more right to the island than I had – this was its family home after all.
Two: Shelter from the Storm
The man in a dirty civil servant's uniform had a job to do. Taking a better grasp of the shovel, he could not help thinking that this surely was not the kind of work he should be doing – and this most definitely was not a place he should be spending any time in. Not if he valued his life and not if he wanted to have any hope for the salvation of his immortal soul.*
He stood alone in the semi-darkness.
Looking at the pile of bloody bodies in front of him, he was suddenly startled by a slight bit of movement among them. An ice-cold finger traced a route along his spine as he saw a bloody hand rise from the shallow grave. His face very pale he stood very, very still, with his shovel raised in his hand, careful not to make a move.
The hand was followed with a face, and a pair of pleading eyes looked at the man with the shovel. The face was equally covered in blood and grime, but the man it belonged to seemed very much alive.
” - Help me”, the man said weakly.
” - For the love of God, help me”.
...
I remember the rhytmic put-put-put of the small inboard motor powering the wooden boat as we started from the lakeshore near Lappeenranta, towards the island of Palosaari. As I sat at the bow, my grandfather steered the boat with a practiced hand. My mother had told me he had lived on the island for many, many years and that the boat was the only way to get to the mainland. To me it seemed old but serviceable, in a rough-and-ready fashion, something like the man himself. While to a young boy the bearded man sitting silently in front of me seemed ancient, at 71 he still appeared to have some strength left in him. And a sense of purpose, it struck me as I looked at him. I could not explain it at the time, but this old man looked like one who had a Purpose, a Direction in his life.*
I looked at a pair of terns flying over us and I spied an old passenger ship steaming towards what I though must the be Lappeenranta harbour. I tried to spot a ringed seal, the most famous example of Saimaa wildlife, but could not catch a sight of this likable creature. So in my thoughts I was that I was almost startled when the bearded man finally spoke up, having spent most of the way in silent contemplation himself.
” - There it is, my island.”
And there it indeed was. Larger than I had thought, the Palosaari island spread out before us. We were heading towards a small jetty on the shore, while a small collection of bigger jetties and piers stood, unused, to the left of it. The island seemed mostly forested, but from here on the lake one could see a number of buildings jutting out from between the trees. They were all painted red – and the biggest one of them had a large, faded white text on it, saying OY PALOSAAREN VENEVEISTÄMÖ.
My grandfather later told me that a boat yard had operated here until the year 1918. Started sometime in the 19th century, the yard had been known for its good quality and reasonable prices all around the Grand Duchy and as far as Stockholm and St. Petersburg. The Palosaari boat yard had experienced something like a small boom during the early years of the First World War, delivering various boats to the Russian state and navy. After the Revolution, in 1917, the orders had stopped cold and then the Russians even refused to pay the bills for the already completed and delivered vessels. The company had already been heavily indebted (my grandfather said the owners were good with boats but useless with money) and with no funds left to pay the workers, and no possibility to take further loans, the boat yard had had to declare bankrupcy soon after the Finnish Civil War. There had been talk of restarting the business in the 20s and again in the 30s, but nothing ever came of it. So the yard just stood empty, its buildings slowly decaying and the name of the company fading away with each consecutive winter.
...
The small group of railway officials wanted nothing to do with the civil war. Their responsibility to the nation ended with making the trains run on time. But as railways were a vital asset for the revolutionary as well as counterrevolutionary forces, these men had been swept up in the events. For the last few months, they had been working for a group of revolutionaries who claimed to fight for their rights and their liberty but in actual fact acted like a pack of ungodly, murderous thieves.
And now their recent abominable act. A travesty, a crime against the laws of God and men both. It was too much for the former station inspector and his two comrades.
But maybe they still could do good, to redeem themselves in the eyes of the Almighty looking down at them from Heaven. In the dark, they escorted the two weary, wounded refugees they had near-miraculously saved from the carnage to the railyard where another one of their comrades was preparing the railway engine.
” - The bastards are all passed out from the drink”, the engineer said to them in low tones, with a melancholy smile on his face.
” - They have been commemoriating their recent exploits. Not even a sentry is awake.”
As the small group started putting some distance between themselves and the town they were escaping from, the former station inspector contemplated the fact that before the war, he never would have though stealing a train and just driving it away in the dead of night could be so easy.
...
From the jetty I followed my grandfather to the cabin where he lived. It was actually bigger than the farmhouse in Kuopio I had been accustomed to – to call it a cabin was probably a misnomer, the old man conceded. Before it had been turned over to him as the island's guardian and groundskeeper, it had been the summer villa of one of the boat yard's former owners. Taking in the mood at the old villa, I could see he told me the truth. It was an elegant building with big windows and a nice big fireplace in what would have been the living room. It also seemed somewhat ratty, all told, and it was very clear that someone, and a man at that, had been living in it alone, perhaps for decades. The bohemian mess I saw around me was a bit shocking at first, after the tight ship my mother kept at home. The bearded man probably saw all this from my eyes - he waved his hand apologetically and uttered a few words in lieu of a welcome to his home.
” - Your own room is to the left. Let's leave your things there and we'll have something to eat. I have some bread and butter, potatoes – and smoked whitefish. Cold spring water to drink. That all right with you?”
I nodded. I only now realized I was ravenous after travelling most of the day. I had eaten the sandwiches my mother had packed for me soon after I left Helsinki.
As we ate, the bearded man spoke about the island. It was his duty to watch over it and the buildings there, he told me in between pieces of bread laden with butter and smoked whitefish. He had been hired for this job in 1918, by the administrator of the property of the bankrupt boat yard. And now, 29 years later, he did the same job. He very rarely had any contact with whoever paid his wages, but as long as the wages kept coming, he would stay at his post. He told me that as his guest I could roam freely on the island – provided I remembered one single rule.
” - And that rule is: never go into the main building, you know the big one with the text on the wall, without me. It is terribly unsafe, it might fall down any time. You might hurt yourself or even get killed if it collapses on you! I couldn't bear having to tell your mother that you hurt yourself stupidly climbing in the rafters or exploring the cellars. So understand this: don't go to that building alone!”
He looked at me sternly, almost angrily, and nodding my head vigorously I promised that I will respect this rule. We even shook hands on it.
I looked at the bearded man and thought of the idea of spending 29 years alone on this island. It might well play tricks on a man's mind. He surely must be happy to have someone to keep him company, someone to talk to for a change, I thought.
...
The small group had to abandon the train in the morning because the railway ahead had been sabotaged. The former station inspector was surprised they had managed to come this far. Only once their right of using the line had been questioned on the way, by a group of revolutionary soldiers at a small railway station, but the railway official had managed to conjure up some of his old bureaucratic officiousness to use as a sword and shield to ensure the young soldiers that it was vital for the revolutionary cause that this train gets through. His heart had pounded madly when they left behind the armed men who could have killed them all then and there.
Climbing off the train, they still had a long way to go to reach what he thought would be a place of safety. A shelter from the storm that was the civil war raging all around them. It would be slow going – they would have to keep to the side roads, as it would be so much harder to fool revolutionary patrols now that they were off the train. It did not help that both the man and the woman they were escorting were injured, and for the woman especially, walking briskly for long distances proved difficult because of a wound in her leg.
The former station inspector took out his small icon of the Holy Mother and prayed for the safety of himself and the small group of people along with him. Only higher powers would help them now, he thought, in this valley of the shadow of death.
Three: One Day in the Summer
I had to go around the old main building to find a way in – the roof had partly collapsed, after all, but most of the building was still intact, if only so-and-so. The rain was drumming on the roof and the wind was shaking the old structure to make the roof creak and groan on top of my head.
With the help of my flashlight I looked around the main hall, where miraculously a half-finished old motor boat stood, still looking as if its builders had just left yesterday to return to their work after the weekend, when in fact it was now well-nigh 60 years since skilled boatbuilder's hands had last put down the tools left scattered around the boat. Seeing the three dismantled inboard motors in the corner made me smile, briefly – with my mind's eye, I could just see a tall, bearded man stripping them for parts, humming contentedly by himself.
I had been wondering for a while if the batteries in my flashlight would have enough power in them to last throught the night, and now I had an idea. Remembering when I had last visited the place, I made my way towards the foreman's office. And there, like I remembered, an old oil lamp hung from the ceiling. Even more surprisingly, it still had some oil in it and, lo and behold, I managed to light it up. I then went around the building, with the flickering light from the oil lamp casting huge, monstrous shadows on the walls.
...
What my grandfather called his job seemed to consist of him going around the island several times a day, checking all the buildings for God knows what, and generally standing guard. To me it seemed he was like an old soldier fighting a war everyone else had already forgotten. He even had an old rifle at the cabin, which he sometimes slung on his shoulder when he went on his jaunts around the island. Most days, I went along with him on some of his walks. He would talk to me about his life and the history of our family, both on those walks and when we went fishing, which was another of his daily rituals. We would check the fish traps he had around the island, and we would go fishing for pike, whitefish, bream or perch. There was a small potato field and a garden on the island, too, and I helped him with them.
Even though a lot of the food we ate could thus be found on the island and the surrounding waters – and never have I eaten so much fish than on that summer – for some things, we had to take the boat to the mainland. Once or twice a week, we then would start up the old Wickström inboard. It took certain tricks to get the motor running, and some more to keep it running well, and the old man tried to teach me all he knew about it. He told me that there were several of these old motors at the boat yard's main building, originally acquired to be installed on motor tenders to be sold to the Imperial Russian Navy, and over the years he had broken down three of the forgotten motors for parts.
” - One of the perks of the job”, he told me with a wink, ”for as long as those parts last, I will never have to buy another motor in my life.”
After a while, the old man felt confident enough to send me to town alone with the boat, and I was very proud that I managed to keep the motor running and remembered to get all the groceries the old man had asked for. On one of these outings, in early July I believe, I was packing up the tin cans and loaves of bread and whatnot, when a man I had seen before at the shop walked up to me. He had heavy-rimmed glasses and a thick moustache. His coat was worn and dirty.
” - Hi there, sonny. You the boy who's living with old man Väärä on the island?”
He looked somewhat shabby and had dark stubble on his cheeks. I didn't like the smell of his breath.
” - Yes, I am his grandson. I'm Konsta Väärä, pleased to make your acquintance, Mr....?”
The man flashed a predatory smile.
” - My name's Jauhiainen. So, you are the old coot's grandson, eh? How well do you know the old man, Konsta? Do you know that he's... not right in the head?”
He cocked his head and looked at me, smiling that unnerving smile of his all the while. The words stuck in my throat.
” - Walking that damn island with his rifle... Waving and shouting at passing boats in some sort of a foreign uniform... He's a damn Nazi, that's what he is. And out of his bloody mind, to boot.”
” - That is not true!”, I said to the man, finally able to open my mouth, ”you are a mean liar!”
The man shrugged his shoulders, his smile not wavering. As he started to open his mouth again, another man intervened, a man in his flannel shirt and heavy boots very reminescent of the farmer I knew in Kuopio.
” - Leave the boy alone, Kalle. Everyone knows you have something against old man Väärä, but I'll be damned if I let you harass innocent kids with your bloody vendetta.”
The man had put his hand on Jauhiainen's shoulder. The shorter man in glasses backed away.
” - No reason to get riled up, Juha, get your Fascist hands off me”, he said belligerently.*
” - I was just educating young Konsta here so he gets... a more comprehensive picture of his crazy old grandfather.”
The man who looked like a farmer shoved Jauhiainen so that the man almost fell down.
” - Take a hike, you bloody Communist. Everyone here knows you for the coward and traitor you are. You are not fit to educate a dog, let alone a fine, well-mannered boy Konsta here seems to be.”
The shorter man again opened his mouth, but then caught himself, muttered something and turned around to stalk away. I looked at the man who had faced him. He shook his head.
” - I am sorry about that. Konsta, was it?”
I nodded.
” - Konsta Väärä. Pleased to make your acquintance, Mr...”
Smiling, the man offered his hand.
” - Juha Ahonius. Good to meet you, young mister Väärä.”
He glanced at the door the man with a foul breath had just slammed shut behind himself.
” - I wouldn't put a lot of stock into that man Jauhiainen's words. He has a beef with your grandfather, on account of old Aleksi being a staunch anti-Communist. You know that, right?”
I nodded. The old man had said things about revolutionaries I had been shocked to hear. He seemed to consider the Soviet Union to be under the spell of Devil himself.
” - Kalle there is a Red. His whole family is – I think his father died in the civil war, and he never got over it...”
I looked at the floor.
” - My Dad died in the war, too, in 1943...”
The man looked at me, seemingly unsure what to do next. Then he nodded his head.
” - I am sorry to hear that. I lost my brother, too. This is something men like Kalle there should understand – he is not alone with his loss. This land is full of men like you and me, and like your grandfather...”
The man shifted his weight uncomfortably from side to side. The female shop assistant came to our rescue. She tousled my hair and handed me a piece of candy.
” - Come on now, chief. I'll get your groceries together, and I am sure Juha here can give you a lift to your boat with his tractor... You keep it at the Mäkelä jetty, right?”
I nodded. She smiled happily to me and Ahonius both.
” - Sure”, the man said, seemingly snapping out of his reverie, ”thank you, Sirkka.”
When we reached the boat the farmer helped me to get the Wickström going. He looked across the water towards Palosaari thoughtfully.
” - Konsta”, he said quietly, ”your grandfather has always seemed like a decent man when I have had dealings with him, but he does have something of a reputation as an eccentric and a recluse... His right-wing, religious views are well known.”
He rubbed his forehead.
” - And then there are those who say that the island is haunted – the Reds killed some people there during the Civil War, and people around here talk about strange things happening there.”
I must have looked at him with my eyes wide, because just then he looked at me and flashed a wide smile.
” - Just silly stories, I am sure. Ask your grandfather about the island, he surely is the foremost authority on its history. For now, I bid you a good day and hope we'll soon meet again.”
He took off in his tractor, touching the brim of his cap with his finger, what he must have thought was a reassuring smile on his face.
For me, it would be a long trip back to the island.
...
The storm was not letting up, rather to the contrary. I again cursed my stupidity for coming here on this night, of all autumn nights I could have chosen. By and by, gathering my courage, I made my way towards the steps down to the cellars.
There was a reason I had come to the island today, after all.
I knew that the building had rather large cellars below it. The old man had warned me about them being treacherous, back in the day. Of course I didn't truly believe him, then. But what might have been mere hyperbole to scare an impressionable kid back then might be more true after the ravages of 30 years the building had endured since – at least the parts of it that were above ground seemed a lot worse than I remember them being in 1947.
Finally reaching the stairwell downstairs I opened the door very carefully. Even if prepared, the creak from the rusted, unoiled hinges still made me nearly jump out of my skin.
Four: Dead Comrades
Looking back to that rainy July day, the man never really forgave himself for abandoning his dying friend like he did, to escape the clutches of the revolutionaries himself. Sure, the man had told him to go, to run, while he sat there, bleeding, propping a military-issue rifle towards the muddy road to shoot at the revolutionaries should they try to follow them.
Maybe he should have stayed there and died with him on that road, on the edge of the areas the revolutionary and counterrevolutionary troops were contesting. Fought on his side to the last with all the four bullets he had left to his Mosin-Nagant rifle.
But then again, he had a higher purpose, one he had started to believe had been handed down from Heaven Above. Miracles, after all, were not that common, especially not in this day and age.
And so, stupidly, he raised his hand in a final salute to the wounded railway engineer and grabbed the reins of the stolen carriage, rousing the thin, pale horse it was hitched to. The man and woman lying down in the back of the carriage were so quiet he had to check they were still alive. They were.
Bleeding himself from a cut in his head caused by a bullet's near miss, the former station inspector took the horse and carriage towards the border, as fast as he dared on the poor road. He hoped the horse would have the strength left in him to take them the last remaining kilometers.*
He prayed to God they all would have the strength to make it to safety.
...
The days were warm and sunny, and like all summer days in my childhood, they were long. I explored almost all corners of the island, finding birds' nests, small hidden caves and all kinds of interesting pieces of machines and boats. It was almost like a paradise for a boy of that age – the only downside was the lack of more boys of that age to play and explore with. With less work to do than on the farm, I would read old books the bearded man gave to me, about cowboys and indians, adventure, machines and wonders of the world.
When the sun had to give way for the rains, we would sit in the cabin with the old man, with logs burning in the old fireplace. There was no electricity on the island, so the small radio ran on batteries and in the nights the only light in the cottage came from oil lamps and candles. And the fireplace, of course, which was the biggest one I had ever seen. I could have walked in it without bowing my head.
” - Konsta”, the old man asked me on one of such rainy afternoon, after we had eaten some fried perch with the ever-present boiled potatoes.
” - What do you remember of your father?”
I told him all I could – how I only saw him when he came home for a holiday from the front, once for a longer period of time because he had been wounded in his arm. I always thought he looked like a hero in his uniform, with his lieutenant's rank tabs and the medals on his chest. He rarely smiled, though. My mother had told me that before the war he would not stop smiling and joking. He had been so handsome and funny, my mother told me, that all the girls she knew had been in love with him – and she had been the lucky one to walk down the aisle with him, to marry him. But now, now he was solemn and quiet. And in the night, he would wake us all up by thrashing around in his bed and suddenly shouting something in his sleep.
To me he always was friendly, but felt somehow distant. Once he cried when he embraced me, and that had scared me deeply. My hero of a father, this rock of male strength, wiping tears from his eyes... I don't know if I remembered this right, but I thought it was the last time I saw him. Some time later, the message was brought to my mother that Lieutenant Petteri Väärä had died in the line of duty, fighting for the Fatherland and the freedom of the Finnish people and been posthumously awarded the Cross of Liberty, Second Class. My mother set the medal on the side table next to the picture of her and Dad, and there it was until the day she died.
Of course I might not have had the words to tell all this to the old man at the time, but, well, at least I would have wanted to.
” - We rarely met, me and your father”, the bearded man said.
” - His mother died soon after we moved here, and when Petteri was only some months old. I could not take care of him on my own, how could I, and that is why I gave him to my sister, your great aunt, to raise as her own child. Has your mother told you this?”
I nodded.
” - Yes, grandfather. Everyone needs a mother, and a stepmother is better than no mother at all.”
” - Quite so. But still... Now I find myself sorry that I did not visit him more often... I always thought I have time... That he is still a young man... But then came the war.”
He looked at me mournfully.
” - I have seen war before. I could have known – I should have known.”
The old man looked at me, with the fire from the fireplace throwing dancing shadows on the walls. The rain drummed on the windowpanes.*
He smiled, and somehow it was both reassuring and a bit scary.
” - And that is why I invited you to spend the summer with me. You are young, and you have your life in front of you. Me, I am an old man, I will never know how much time I still have left...”
” - Grandfather...”, I started.
” - Yes, I know. I probably have several good years in me left. But you can never be sure, and with the Communist devils still holding sway in Russia, we never know when another war is upon us. You know they are fighting in Russia even now, from the radio reports.”
We had been listening to the radio a lot, and indeed the news from the USSR were that the Soviet leader, Stalin, had died in June and now there were running battles on the streets of Moscow between various Bolshevik factions looking to take over the reins of the Soviet state after him. There were also revolts in progress in several Eastern European countries and Soviet tanks were reported on the streets of Prague and Budapest. Back home, apparently the Communists were protesting almost daily in Helsinki now.
To be frank, I was worried about my mother.
Me, Konsta, at age twelve, then thought it was my responsibility to help this old man feel better about the world.
” - Grandfather, we miss Dad a lot, me and Mother. But we make do, the two of us. We are all right, despite everything.”
I remember that I could see a kind fire lighting up in the old man's eyes.
” - I am glad to hear that, Konsta. I am glad. Remember, if there is any way to help your mother...”
I looked at him and smiled.
” - But grandfather, you are already helping us! Mother said you are sending money to us almost every month, and that helps us a lot.”
The old man looked back at me, now suddenly confused.
” - No, you are mistaken. I have never sent money to your mother.”
...
Crossing the border turned out to be the easiest part. As the former station inspector took his horse and carriage next to the border crossing with a large if tattered red flag flying over it, only one bored revolutionary bothered to come out of the hut to ask what he had in the back. As it was covered, he was eying it greedily.
”- Corpses, taking them back home to be buried. It is bloody business trying to work the railways these days, too”, he said, indicating his filthy uniform so that the man could see he was a railway official.
The revolutionary took a peek below the canvas cover and backed away quickly.
”- Why the hell you cart them around for? Just bury them somewhere, you idiot!”
He looked at the man riding the carriage like he was a madman.
”- I promised to get them home. Promise is a promise.”
The revolutionary shook his head and waved towards the contested border.
”- All right, go ahead. But I need your shoes first.”
The former station inspector raised his head slowly.
”- You need what?”
The man gestured towards his feet.
”- Your fine shoes. Call it a toll”, he said, smiling a broken smile and raising his rifle for effect.
The man on the carriage looked at him in silence, took off his boots and threw them to the ground. As the revolutionary warrior started to pick them up, the former station inspector took the reins and led the horse forward, towards safety.
The horse was already exhausted. It, too, had not eaten in days. Slowly, ever so slowly they crossed the small bridge into the land the driver called home.
[filler]
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