Punished

27. Jon-Ante

JON-ANTE

1954

The schoolyard had been plowed, the snowbanks were a meter high, and red stars glowed above the candelabras in the windows of the dormitory. The children had learned all about Jesus, they could fold their hands and pray the prayers of the church, sing the psalms, and they knew what Christmas was supposed to remind them of. But today, nothing was more important than listening for the bus that would free them.

Jon-Ante had spent most of the night lying wide awake, just waiting to be allowed to get up and pack his bag and go home. Now his hair was wet-combed to tame the cowlick on the back of his head, but it wasn’t visible under his hat.

“It’s twenty-three below,” Anna had said. “Are you really going to wait outside?”

She was teasing them, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes anymore. Today she seemed to be making an effort for their sake, trying to act cheerful, but everyone suspected her mind was really on Else-Maj and Sara. Jon-Ante squeezed her for the briefest of moments as he dashed outside. Most of them hadn’t seen their families in almost four months. He felt like his legs were full of fizzy soda and his heart was beating so fast there was no way he could get cold.

Not everyone got to go home today. A few had been informed that their parents were delayed: Nilsa and Aslak, a pair of sisters, and Anne-Risten would stay for one more night.

Nilsa had shoved Jon-Ante into the sink this morning. The bruise on his ribs would probably show up tomorrow. It would take its place among all the other bruises in various stages of healing. Some of them hurt when you poked at them. Nilsa was in an extra-bad mood this morning, and Jon-Ante wasn’t the only one who’d gotten shoved or hit. Aslak stuck close behind his brother, like a shadow. When Jon-Ante got shoved, Aslak looked away as though he didn’t want to watch. Then he walked backwards out of the bathroom, mouthing something Jon-Ante couldn’t make out, but they waved at each other furtively.

Now Jon-Ante was at the end of the line in the schoolyard, holding tight to his canvas bag. The other children laughed and talked—in Sámi, even. There wasn’t enough time for anyone to punish them, and they grew bold. He glimpsed Housemother in the window of her quarters. Her steps had been lighter today too, and she’d been less temperamental during breakfast.

Anne-Risten was lurking about at a distance, keeping close to the corners of the building or sitting by herself in a swing that was nearly buried in snow. Jon-Ante had heard her crying to one of the big girls that she didn’t want to be left behind, that she was afraid of Nilsa.

He had never tattled on Nilsa or the other boys who had left him in the shed in the cemetery. He’d thought they would leave him alone after that, as they’d promised. For the first week he was spared; they slunk past him with their eyes elsewhere. But when the improvised bandage on his hand turned dingy gray and was removed, he realized things were going to get worse. Nilsa liked to walk by and punch him in the stomach sometimes, knocking the wind out of him so he couldn’t cry out or breathe.

A punch in the gut didn’t leave any bruises, he’d noticed. If they pinched hard, though, that left marks. The biggest ones were on either side of his back, where they’d aimed for his kidneys. He hadn’t even known where those were before Nilsa said they were going to fight like boxers and aim for the kidneys. Jon-Ante wouldn’t hit back, so it never turned into a brawl like with the other boys. He just took the blows and often fell quickly. So far, no one had kept beating on him once he was down.

It was hard to say why Jon-Ante was their favorite target. Nilsa claimed it was because his isá was a reindeer thief, but it wasn’t true! Sometimes when Nilsa said that, Jon-Ante made fists and came close to striking back.

Now they could hear the bus, and the children tried to spot it, hooting wildly. It stopped near the schoolhouse and they crowded in, laughing. Jon-Ante took a window seat in the fourth row. Nilsa and Aslak had approached the bus too. They patted their mittens together, making snowballs. One hit the window where Jon-Ante sat. He didn’t jump; instead, he smiled. A smile that came from deep inside. A smile that threw Nilsa into a rage. But not Aslak—he smiled back, and that prompted Jon-Ante to press his index and middle fingers against the window, in a victory sign. Teacher had talked about the war and some politician who had made that sign, and what it meant. He hoped Aslak remembered too.

Nilsa was making another snowball and tore off his mittens so it would go faster. The bus was already rolling, and he missed. Jon-Ante laughed. “Take that!” he whispered to himself.

“He missed!” someone cheered in the back of the bus.

Jon-Ante was sitting alone, which was nothing new. It was like he was contagious. No one wanted to be like him and get beaten up all the time. He placed his palms flat on his thighs, trying to force his pinkie to touch his ring finger, but it hurt too much. No doctor had ever looked at it. Housemother said there was no need. Anna gasped when she saw his swollen hand later that evening.

“You have to see a doctor. That looks broken,” she whispered into his ear, in Sámi. She walked off, only to return with angry red cheeks. “She’s crazy. Saying I should bandage it up. How am I supposed to wrap it the right way?”

Even so, Anna had brought gauze and clips. She tried to move his finger into the proper position, and he cried silent tears.

“Does it hurt that much?”

It did, but there was another part that hurt worse, and it was hard to explain. It had something to do with how a grown-up had hurt him.

Anna gently wrapped the hand, muttering to herself. “It won’t be my fault if it turns out crooked.” Then she hastily wiped her cheek. “But then again, it will be. My fault.”

“I want to go home,” he managed to say.

Anna unwrapped the gauze and started over. He watched what she did, her chilly fingers holding his own.

If Enná asked what had happened when he got home today, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell her. It was like the memory was playing hide-and-seek. Had Housemother stomped on his hand on purpose? Or had she lost her balance?

After ten kilometers the bus pulled into Vuolle Sohppar, where the driver let off a few children, and now there were only five kilometers to go. He saw Guorpmit and felt a tingle in his belly. He was so excited to see his brothers and parents, but he didn’t want his arrival to make them sad. He would hide his hand as best he could. He tried putting it in his pocket.

With his mittens on, he got off the bus, and this time Enná was waiting for him by the stop. His little brothers reached him first and clung to his legs. He felt changed, as though he had become a different boy since he was last home, the time he had mumps. Enná looked at him as though she could see it too. She cupped his cheeks and ran her thumbs under his eyes, where dark shadows had long since taken up residence.

But they walked together, pretending everything was fine. He looked out at the village, at the smoke rising from chimneys, dogs running along the road, and he looked up the hill at the school he wasn’t allowed to attend. Soon he would see his home. Goa ? un. Several children from school, those whose parents hadn’t come to meet them, dashed on ahead and vanished into the houses along the Sámi loop. He wanted to run, too, because his chest was about to burst with joy.

Enná had brought the kick sled and Isak sat on the seat while Mikkel stood in front of Enná on the runners. Jon-Ante carried his bag and walked alongside like the big boy he now was.

Isá had plowed tall snowdrifts in the yard and a Christmas star was hanging in the kitchen window. They went inside, and the scent of home made Jon-Ante pause in the front hall. He burrowed his face into the clothes hanging there and inhaled his family into his heart.

“Let’s get these off,” Enná said, pulling at his mittens. When he recoiled, she grew cautious. She let him be and swept Isak into her arms.

He worked off the mittens and shoved his hands into his pockets, going to the kitchen with a swing in his step. Enná laughed.

“Goodness, what a dandy we’ve brought home!”

Then he raised one eyebrow like a movie star. The table was set, and he heard Isá stamping his feet on the front steps. Soon he was standing in the hall, a little awkward, hanging up his coat and aiming a slight smile in Jon-Ante’s direction.

“Well, then,” he said, and his smile grew as he held out his arms.

Jon-Ante leaned into his embrace, feeling Isá’s heartbeat in his ear, and he so badly wanted to wrap his arms around his father’s warm body. Instead, his hands squeezed the fabric inside his pockets.

But Isá, he hugged Jon-Ante, really going for it and pulling him close. He didn’t even seem to notice that no arms hugged him back.

He smelled like the forest and something impossible to describe. Jon-Ante pressed closer to his chest and closed his eyes. The rough fabric of Isá’s sweater scraped his cheek lightly. They breathed in tandem as they’d always done.

“What a tough guy, hands in his pockets like that,” said Enná. She set steaming pots on the table. “And he’s grown, did you notice?”

Isá held him at arm’s length for a moment, then pulled him close to measure him against his chest. “Juoa.”

“Have a seat,” said Enná.

He went to his spot on the kitchen bench, closest to the window. He looked out at the houses across the road and wondered if Oskar was eating lunch right now too. He would run over there later.

Isá peeled potatoes and Enná cut meat into small pieces for Isak and Mikkel. Jon-Ante used his left hand and his knife to cut his potato. The meat was harder to handle, and he switched to a fork, spearing the whole piece of suovas and biting off chunks. Both Enná and Isá looked at him oddly.

“I’ve learned to add really good now,” he said quickly.

“Have you, then?” said Enná.

He used his unreliable left hand to stick his fork in the potato and took a big bite, skin and all.

“Don’t you want to use your knife and fork?” Enná cocked her head. “That looks difficult.”

“I’m practicing getting better with my left hand.”

“Why?”

He chewed, unable to think of a response.

“Could there be something in your pocket, perhaps?” Enná looked pleased, as though she had solved some sort of riddle.

“No.” Jon-Ante took another big bite of meat. “It’s so good!”

“Maybe we can see it later, then,” said Enná.

Suddenly he couldn’t hold back. Once he began crying, it wasn’t long before Isak joined in. Jon-Ante placed his right hand on the table so they could see his misfortune. Enná picked up his little brother and rocked him swiftly back and forth, even as she stared at the finger.

Isá took hold of his hand, touching gently. “What happened?”

At that point, his tears ached to become a howl, but he bit his trembling lip. He couldn’t say a word.

“When did this happen?”

“A long time ago,” he sobbed. He had no idea how many weeks had passed. Time at school wasn’t measured in the same way as at home. Even so, he said, “Maybe after the bull slaughter.”

“What happened?” Isá examined his hand from every angle and gingerly pressed his little finger toward his ring finger, trying to fix it in the same way Jon-Ante himself had done.

“Housemother got—” And the air left his lungs for a moment. “She got mad and stomped on it.”

Isá’s eyes widened. Enná, who had managed to quiet Isak, stopped rocking him abruptly. “What did you say?”

Jon-Ante pulled his hand back, hiding it under the table and trying to stop crying. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. Then he told them. The whole story. From the cemetery to Housemother’s shoe. Not once did they interrupt him.

“Why didn’t anyone call us?” Isá’s question was impossible to answer. Everyone had stopped eating; they’d all lost their appetites.

“We have to go to a doctor,” Enná said at last.

“It’s too late,” said Isá.

Jon-Ante knew it, too. His finger had healed on its own, crooked.

“And you said it was Nilsa?” Isá growled.

Jon-Ante had left out the part where Nilsa called Isá a reindeer thief. It was bad enough already.

“That boy has always been cruel,” said Enná. “He’s just like his áddjá was.”

They were talking over his head now, as though they couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Even though he’d hidden his hand in his lap.

“I’ll be contacting Rita Olsson,” Isá said, his voice gruff. “This is unacceptable.”

Jon-Ante didn’t dare protest, but he wasn’t sure what was right to do when it came to Housemother. At last his stomach rumbled; how he’d longed for Enná’s cooking. He picked up his silverware and cut the meat. He could see them glancing at his crooked little finger. It doesn’t look all that bad , he tried to reassure himself.

He ate up every last bite of meat and potatoes on his plate and licked both knife and fork clean. “I’m going to Oskar’s.”

“Then change your shirt,” said Enná, who was clearing the table although she’d hardly eaten a bite herself.

And he forgot, simply pulled his school shirt over his head and waited for a new one. When Enná returned, she gasped and stopped short. Then he felt her gentle fingertips brushing his back, and he didn’t dare move.

“Put this on,” she said, her voice thick.

The collar just barely fit over his head, and his arms got more tangled than usual. He wanted to say it wasn’t Housemother who gave him all those bruises, maybe just one or two of them. It was mostly Nilsa. Then again, it was other boys too, and he didn’t want to say so. He would have to rattle off so many names.