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Thirty-three: Before the Flames
...
Thirty-three: Before the Flames
Arvo
Despite his warm clothes, the young cavalry officer felt a cold wind passing right through him here in the dark forest. Outside a card table, Arvo Vaara was not a supertitious man. But if he was ever to believe in ghosts, this might be one of those nights. Wind howled between the trees on both sides of the snowy road, and if Arvo looked hard enough, he could see surreptious movements all around.
The people of the forest. Be careful with them, would his grandmother have said. Now, as a grown man, Arvo realized that Grandma Sanni had told those spooky stories to Salomo's young twin sons to instill into them a healthy respect of the forest and what ever realistic dangers a young boy might meet there. This understanding did not at all remove the fact that sometimes, in times like this, those old stories could return to his mind unbidden, to make him wonder if there still was something to those beliefs about the supernatural.
Usually, if such thoughts struck Arvo, he would just brush them away with a joke or two with his fellow officers or NCOs. A little horseplay among other guys was a great way to take your mind off other things. Now, though, Arvo and the others had been ordered to maintain strict silence on this outing. There was to be no jokes or, God forbid, singing.
So, there was no helping that howl of the wind was the main sound around, along with the noises made by the horses and the sleighs moving in a convoy through the forest.
Soon, the convoy reached an open, snowy expanse. It was not a field, as someone might have thought, but a lake, frozen over and covered with snow. This made it easier going for the horses and the sleighs, but then it put them more out in the open. Here, the wind was even more biting. Luckily, though, there was a good cover of clouds above. Under a clear sky, today's nearly full moon would mercilessly allow any canny observer to see the line of horses and sleighs moving across the big lake.
Arvo hadn't really liked how things had developed in the last few months, in Finland or in the Mounted Regiment. The excitement of the mobilization before Christmas had by January 1940 turned into an inglorious demobilization. Many men in the military felt that they had been robbed of the chance to show the bloody Bolsheviks what-for, to perform glorious deeds for the Fatherland.
Generally speaking, the cadre soldiers Arvo knew had been very disappointed in the Finnish government's decision to relinquish land in Karelia and in the Gulf of Finland to Stalin. It felt like a capitulation, and it was very detrimental to morale. For military instructors like Lieutenant Arvo Vaara, it made the work of keeping up the good cheer of the men, and the very cohesion of their units up a much more difficult proposition. Absenteeism was growing, men would more easily go AWOL, and you had to mete out more admistrative disciplinary punishments to the men.
Just last week, Captain Majewski had called a meeting of his officers and addressed this very same issue. The older, somewhat eccentric officer was very aware of the need for good morale among the men, and exhorted Vaara and the others to keep their wits about them.
”Vigilance, that is the key”, the man boomed in his accented voice, ”keep a close eye on your men, reward good behaviour and punish those who break the rules, swiftly and decisively....”
The captain paused, and then lowered his voide a bit.
”...But remember, that each punishment must be proportional to the disgression, and you have to take into account the particular soldier's previous track record, too, right? A good officer is not a tyrant, he is a loving father to his men. A good officer doesn't just punish, he can also forgive... But only when it is appropriate for the man and his deeds, and only when it is for the greater good of the unit.”
Remembering Majewski's words now, Arvo Vaara wondered how well he will be able to follow the captain's maxims himself. After all, his experiences of what a good father was like were quite limited.
In short, Arvo was not sure his father Salomo would have made what Majewski could have called a good military officer.
”Worry not, cavalrymen!”, Majewski had continued, looking a bit less grave now, ”for our inaction here is soon coming to an end. We have orders for action, so prepare yourself. Every one of you, choose a squad's worth of the men you trust the most. I'll tell you more in a week or so.”
He had not lied. Here Arvo was now, with his hand-picked men, taking a convoy across the lake in the middle of the night in early April. Soon, spring would be coming and operations like this would not be possible anymore. It was lucky that the winter had been so harsh as it was.
Finally, the convoy reached land again, and there, just a short way from the lake was their objective. Scanning the surroundings, Arvo saw the glowing end of a cigarette in the gloom. It looked like the man was raising a rifle.
”Juho”, Arvo uttered the agreed-upon code word.
”Ahokas”, the man said in return, and slung the rifle on his back. He then walked closer.
”You're prompt, aren't you? I'll get the boys and we'll get to work."
What with the men already here, from the local Civil Guards unit, and with Arvo's squad from the barracks, they made short work of the boxes of rifles, hand granades and ammunition the convoy had brought along with it. They were placed below the barn's floorboards, which then were covered with hay to be sure.
Arvo shook hands with the Civil Guard, an older man with a moustache and the look of a farmer, and took out his pack of Klubi 7 cigarettes.
”Care for a smoke?”
”Always. Thank you.”
The two men smoked a while in silence as Vaara's men were making the horses ready for the way back.
Taking the last drag off their respective cigarettes, the men then nodded to each other emphatically.
That was that.
…
2008
The old man carefully made his way down the large, ornate staircase. Grabbing the railing with his right hand, after an arduous journey his feet were now finally on the ground floor. Taking a while to allow the pounding of his heart to subside, he looked around.
Apart from the man, there was nobody else in the big house. Silence hung in the air along with those numerous particles of dust he could see in the light coming in from between the heavy curtains in the big windows. The only thing that could be heard was the ticking of the big grandfather clock.
The man grabbed the cane he kept by the stairs, one with the head of a lion on it, and then continued on to the room he had in the last decade made into a study. A large oaken desk sat by the window, with large book cases on both side of it, containing a wealth of books in several languages, primarily in English and in Finnish.
Next to the bookcases was a display case with a few uniforms in it, as well as some edged weapons. The firearms were smartly locked away in the safe.
The big desk was covered with books and stacks of papers. Some of the papers were obviously old, yellowed with time, with blue and red stamps on them as well as typed and handwritten text on them. Others were new and apparently recently covered in scribbled and typewritten words.
In the middle of the books and papers stood a modern Underwood typewriter, a Model 700 from the early 1980s. The man had great trust in the products of the Underwood company, and this machine had certainly served him well. Besides, he never got around to learn to use one of those newfangled computers, anyway.
Through most of the day, the man typed. Sheet after sheet, he worked meticulously to get the story on paper. Promptly at two, he stood up, made his way into the kitchen and fixed himself two sandwiches and a cup of coffee.
The man had given his long-time housekeeper her final notice the previous week.
Through the afternoon, the man worked, not caring for the pain in his back or the way his old wounds across the body felt as he remembered things long past.
Finally, it was seven in the evening. A few last keystrokes, and the man pulled the last sheet from the typewriter. He put it gingerly on top of a neat stack of papers.
Feeling a sense of elation, now, the man stood up. If someone was there to observe him, he would have looked taller now, and maybe even younger, than in the morning. There was a slight smile on his lips as he caressed the stack of typewritten pages and then took a walk to the big old globe in the corner of the room. Inside of it was a concealed liquer cabinet, from which the man produced a bottle of good cognac.
He poured a big drink into a large snifter, and then sat down on a couch, savoring the smell and then taste of the expensive drink.
We don't know what thoughts ran through the head of the man who had just completed his life's story. The man was in his 90s, and two weeks ago, his doctor had given him two weeks to live.
To be fair, he didn't even want to smoke anymore.
The man now stood up and poured himself another drink. He grabbed an old black and white photo from the desk. There was a number of people in it.
His family.
With some hesitation, the man took a small vial from his pocket, and then emptied it into the glass with the cognac.
After a little wait, he raised the glass.
”To you... Where ever you may be”, he said to the photo and took a big swig from the glass.
About an hour later, an old Dodge pickup pulled in front of the manor. A man in his early thirties got out and walked to the door.
He rang the doorbell. He knocked. And then he rang and knocked again.
Strange, the man thought. This was, after all, the exact time they had agreed upon.
The man knocked on the door again, now with some force.
”Sir, it's me!” he shouted, ”are you home?”
There would be no answer.
Finally, the man remembered where the old man had said he kept the spare key.
….
I have waited for the things to come
I have waited
Now I am spending lost time
Which is celebrated with the pipe organs of oblivion
And when I think of death
I think about
What I never got around to do
And how they will play me tomorrow
Viikate: Unholan urut (2005)
…
To Be Continued...
...
Thirty-three: Before the Flames
Arvo
Despite his warm clothes, the young cavalry officer felt a cold wind passing right through him here in the dark forest. Outside a card table, Arvo Vaara was not a supertitious man. But if he was ever to believe in ghosts, this might be one of those nights. Wind howled between the trees on both sides of the snowy road, and if Arvo looked hard enough, he could see surreptious movements all around.
The people of the forest. Be careful with them, would his grandmother have said. Now, as a grown man, Arvo realized that Grandma Sanni had told those spooky stories to Salomo's young twin sons to instill into them a healthy respect of the forest and what ever realistic dangers a young boy might meet there. This understanding did not at all remove the fact that sometimes, in times like this, those old stories could return to his mind unbidden, to make him wonder if there still was something to those beliefs about the supernatural.
Usually, if such thoughts struck Arvo, he would just brush them away with a joke or two with his fellow officers or NCOs. A little horseplay among other guys was a great way to take your mind off other things. Now, though, Arvo and the others had been ordered to maintain strict silence on this outing. There was to be no jokes or, God forbid, singing.
So, there was no helping that howl of the wind was the main sound around, along with the noises made by the horses and the sleighs moving in a convoy through the forest.
Soon, the convoy reached an open, snowy expanse. It was not a field, as someone might have thought, but a lake, frozen over and covered with snow. This made it easier going for the horses and the sleighs, but then it put them more out in the open. Here, the wind was even more biting. Luckily, though, there was a good cover of clouds above. Under a clear sky, today's nearly full moon would mercilessly allow any canny observer to see the line of horses and sleighs moving across the big lake.
Arvo hadn't really liked how things had developed in the last few months, in Finland or in the Mounted Regiment. The excitement of the mobilization before Christmas had by January 1940 turned into an inglorious demobilization. Many men in the military felt that they had been robbed of the chance to show the bloody Bolsheviks what-for, to perform glorious deeds for the Fatherland.
Generally speaking, the cadre soldiers Arvo knew had been very disappointed in the Finnish government's decision to relinquish land in Karelia and in the Gulf of Finland to Stalin. It felt like a capitulation, and it was very detrimental to morale. For military instructors like Lieutenant Arvo Vaara, it made the work of keeping up the good cheer of the men, and the very cohesion of their units up a much more difficult proposition. Absenteeism was growing, men would more easily go AWOL, and you had to mete out more admistrative disciplinary punishments to the men.
Just last week, Captain Majewski had called a meeting of his officers and addressed this very same issue. The older, somewhat eccentric officer was very aware of the need for good morale among the men, and exhorted Vaara and the others to keep their wits about them.
”Vigilance, that is the key”, the man boomed in his accented voice, ”keep a close eye on your men, reward good behaviour and punish those who break the rules, swiftly and decisively....”
The captain paused, and then lowered his voide a bit.
”...But remember, that each punishment must be proportional to the disgression, and you have to take into account the particular soldier's previous track record, too, right? A good officer is not a tyrant, he is a loving father to his men. A good officer doesn't just punish, he can also forgive... But only when it is appropriate for the man and his deeds, and only when it is for the greater good of the unit.”
Remembering Majewski's words now, Arvo Vaara wondered how well he will be able to follow the captain's maxims himself. After all, his experiences of what a good father was like were quite limited.
In short, Arvo was not sure his father Salomo would have made what Majewski could have called a good military officer.
”Worry not, cavalrymen!”, Majewski had continued, looking a bit less grave now, ”for our inaction here is soon coming to an end. We have orders for action, so prepare yourself. Every one of you, choose a squad's worth of the men you trust the most. I'll tell you more in a week or so.”
He had not lied. Here Arvo was now, with his hand-picked men, taking a convoy across the lake in the middle of the night in early April. Soon, spring would be coming and operations like this would not be possible anymore. It was lucky that the winter had been so harsh as it was.
Finally, the convoy reached land again, and there, just a short way from the lake was their objective. Scanning the surroundings, Arvo saw the glowing end of a cigarette in the gloom. It looked like the man was raising a rifle.
”Juho”, Arvo uttered the agreed-upon code word.
”Ahokas”, the man said in return, and slung the rifle on his back. He then walked closer.
”You're prompt, aren't you? I'll get the boys and we'll get to work."
What with the men already here, from the local Civil Guards unit, and with Arvo's squad from the barracks, they made short work of the boxes of rifles, hand granades and ammunition the convoy had brought along with it. They were placed below the barn's floorboards, which then were covered with hay to be sure.
Arvo shook hands with the Civil Guard, an older man with a moustache and the look of a farmer, and took out his pack of Klubi 7 cigarettes.
”Care for a smoke?”
”Always. Thank you.”
The two men smoked a while in silence as Vaara's men were making the horses ready for the way back.
Taking the last drag off their respective cigarettes, the men then nodded to each other emphatically.
That was that.
…
2008
The old man carefully made his way down the large, ornate staircase. Grabbing the railing with his right hand, after an arduous journey his feet were now finally on the ground floor. Taking a while to allow the pounding of his heart to subside, he looked around.
Apart from the man, there was nobody else in the big house. Silence hung in the air along with those numerous particles of dust he could see in the light coming in from between the heavy curtains in the big windows. The only thing that could be heard was the ticking of the big grandfather clock.
The man grabbed the cane he kept by the stairs, one with the head of a lion on it, and then continued on to the room he had in the last decade made into a study. A large oaken desk sat by the window, with large book cases on both side of it, containing a wealth of books in several languages, primarily in English and in Finnish.
Next to the bookcases was a display case with a few uniforms in it, as well as some edged weapons. The firearms were smartly locked away in the safe.
The big desk was covered with books and stacks of papers. Some of the papers were obviously old, yellowed with time, with blue and red stamps on them as well as typed and handwritten text on them. Others were new and apparently recently covered in scribbled and typewritten words.
In the middle of the books and papers stood a modern Underwood typewriter, a Model 700 from the early 1980s. The man had great trust in the products of the Underwood company, and this machine had certainly served him well. Besides, he never got around to learn to use one of those newfangled computers, anyway.
Through most of the day, the man typed. Sheet after sheet, he worked meticulously to get the story on paper. Promptly at two, he stood up, made his way into the kitchen and fixed himself two sandwiches and a cup of coffee.
The man had given his long-time housekeeper her final notice the previous week.
Through the afternoon, the man worked, not caring for the pain in his back or the way his old wounds across the body felt as he remembered things long past.
Finally, it was seven in the evening. A few last keystrokes, and the man pulled the last sheet from the typewriter. He put it gingerly on top of a neat stack of papers.
Feeling a sense of elation, now, the man stood up. If someone was there to observe him, he would have looked taller now, and maybe even younger, than in the morning. There was a slight smile on his lips as he caressed the stack of typewritten pages and then took a walk to the big old globe in the corner of the room. Inside of it was a concealed liquer cabinet, from which the man produced a bottle of good cognac.
He poured a big drink into a large snifter, and then sat down on a couch, savoring the smell and then taste of the expensive drink.
We don't know what thoughts ran through the head of the man who had just completed his life's story. The man was in his 90s, and two weeks ago, his doctor had given him two weeks to live.
To be fair, he didn't even want to smoke anymore.
The man now stood up and poured himself another drink. He grabbed an old black and white photo from the desk. There was a number of people in it.
His family.
With some hesitation, the man took a small vial from his pocket, and then emptied it into the glass with the cognac.
After a little wait, he raised the glass.
”To you... Where ever you may be”, he said to the photo and took a big swig from the glass.
About an hour later, an old Dodge pickup pulled in front of the manor. A man in his early thirties got out and walked to the door.
He rang the doorbell. He knocked. And then he rang and knocked again.
Strange, the man thought. This was, after all, the exact time they had agreed upon.
The man knocked on the door again, now with some force.
”Sir, it's me!” he shouted, ”are you home?”
There would be no answer.
Finally, the man remembered where the old man had said he kept the spare key.
….
I have waited for the things to come
I have waited
Now I am spending lost time
Which is celebrated with the pipe organs of oblivion
And when I think of death
I think about
What I never got around to do
And how they will play me tomorrow
Viikate: Unholan urut (2005)
…
To Be Continued...
- DrakonFin
- Word Count: 1.9k