An excerpt from the private diary of GET, a Junior Researcher with the Minne 1984 Project.
Dated May 2010.
When I left the lodgings in the municipal centre, I had Sergeant Sundin with me as always those days. The Sergeant was veteran in Minne duty, had been escorting researchers since '04 or something like that. I guess had had been in some tough spots in his day, but he exuded an air of calm and he spoke passable Finnish, now. He had been of quite some help to me.
The locals would always stare at our newish vehicle, an all-terrain 4WD Saab of Swedish Army issue, or then make a point of looking away studiously. The vehicles did not have military markings but the type was easy to distinguish and of course most Finnish cars on the roads, civilian or military, were older and often in poor repair. Especially next to the horse-drawn vehicles - often made from parts of old cars - our Saabs would stand out. Here deep in the FNA interior we would sometimes be followed by groups of children, pelting the car with stones or shouts of ”Hurrit perkele!”
That day the work took us to the monastery. I had called in advance to the Hegumen, Vitali, for a permission to visit the monastery hospital and, by and by, he had agreed to allow us in. The local military authorities had put up bit of a fight because of the interview subject, though, but after I got the necessary papers and stamps from On High we were set to go.
Apparently, the only way to get to the monastery was by water. Sundin was weary of leaving the car at the docks, but there was nothing to do about it. (When we got back, air had been let out from two of the tires and ”Swedish go home” written on the dust on the car's side.) So we boarded the Heinävesi, an early 20th century vintage steam ship likes of which do a lot of work on the lakes of Eastern Finland. As it was, the ship was packed with people going to Savonlinna, one of the bigger FNA centres in the lakeland. A group of bashful teenage Lottas in their plain grey, anachronistic uniforms caught my eye on the upper deck. They were accompanied by a older woman wearing, along with the uniform, a stern expression of authority. She gave me a dark look when I gawped at the group, telling me wordlessly she would bash my head in with a Finnish baseball bat if I so much as tried to approach her girls.
The monastery, New Valamo, is a home to both about 50 Orthodox monks and a military hospital set up in 1984 in the building that was to become a cultural centre before the war. Since the late 80s the hospital, jointly kept by the brothers and the FNA military, has housed surviving war invalids from the War and the Reclamation, people who had the fortune of receiving their injuries only after the horror of the camps on the Line had mostly passed. When I went there, about 30 patients were left, though the group was diminishing all the time.
After greeted welcome by a long-bearded Orthodox monk in robes at the monastery dock – Vitali was unavailable – we were taken to the office of the local military commander. He greeted us with the ordinary FNA officiousness, cold, bureaucratic and correct in a strained way. He even offered us some herbal tea and stale cookies. After the traditional respect-my-authority wait, a male orderly took us to the right hospital ward with nary a word. He only spoke to caution me that the man would have his lucid moments, like now, and then he might well become incoherent and violent in seconds. We would do well to keep our distance, we were told. There would be an armed orderly in the next room at all times, he said.
The man I was going to see was resting on his bed in semi-darkness, alone in a small room. Besides from the bed and a small table, the room was bare - just a small Orthodox icon of the Holy Mother hung on the wall. After the orderly spoke to to the man, he slowly turned hise head to see us. As the light from the window hit the left side of his face, I could see it was horribly disfigured as if by acid or fire. The man made a smile, or a grimace, as the orderly propped up his upper torso. His arms and legs were tied to the bed with loose but secure straps.
” - I've heard of you,” the ruined man said in a creaky, muffled voice. He could open his mouth only partly.
” - You're the Swedish historian the Hegumen told me about.”
I told him that was right and set down the tape recorder on the table, getting my notebook and pencil out of my bag. Sundin eyed the man, seemingly relaxed but alert. He used to make a point of keeping his pistol holster well in view.
” - You're the Swedish historian and you want me to talk about the Battle of Porvoo. I was there, you know. Oh God, was I there.”
I nodded, sharpening my pencil.
And that's how it started, my relationship with Private Juha Valjakkala, a war hero and one of the last survivors of the Battle of Porvoo.
[Per the Security of the Realm Act, access to the rest of this document is restricted to personnel with security level 4 and above.]
”This is the YLE, Mikkeli. The time is 20.30 on Sunday, May 26th 2013. We interrupt regular programming to bring you these notices from the authorities. What follows is a public service announcement, approved by the State Information Office.
Due to a recent decision by the National Committee for the Continuity of Government, the series of public information broadcasts titled The Land of Sad Songs will be continued with new installments in early June 2013 with
Chapter XL. Homesick and Tired, Part 1.
Chapter XLI. Homesick and Tired, Part 2.
Chapter XLI. The Lights over the Southeast, Part 1.
Further information to follow on this frequency. This series of stereophonic public information broadcasts is brought to you in cooperation with the Finnish Red Cross Blood Service. Blood – it can't be bought from the pharmacy and it can't be made in a factory. Do Your share to help us so the Blood Service's stocks will never run empty."
Last edited:
