Punished

31. Jon-Ante

JON-ANTE

1955

His neck and the skin behind his ears felt like they had been flayed. His flesh still stung from when Iris scrubbed him clean. Jon-Ante would rather have had Anna’s gentle hands on him, but she was no longer at the school. Iris could be just as brusque as Housemother, and she never hesitated to smack someone across the back of the head.

The nomad school inspector was coming, and the children weren’t the only ones worried about saying the wrong thing during their examinations. The teachers, Housemother, and the maids seemed just as tense. During the inspection they were supposed to prove they were following the state’s decree that children who were Lapps should remain Lapps. Teacher had said something like that, anyway. Jon-Ante couldn’t quite make sense of it. They were supposed to be Lapps, but they weren’t allowed to speak Sámi in school. And they had been taught that joiking was sinful but they were supposed to wear gákti when visitors came.

Now they were lined up outside in the winter light, all in their gákti. Guovvamánnu, February, hadn’t yet brought any hope of spring—snow could still fall in thick blankets, and the cold bit at their noses—but the sun was theirs once more.

First the pupils would greet the visitors, welcoming them, and then there would be singing and photographs. The line was full of whispers and a few nervous giggles. One of the village’s many free-running dogs, a Finnish spitz the size and color of a fox, wagged its tail at them, asking to be petted.

A car pulled into the drive and the students fell silent.

A tall, thin man in a black coat climbed out holding his hat and gloves in his hands. Two other gentlemen followed; Jon-Ante thought of them as gentlemen because they looked important in their wide-lapeled coats and shoes that were better suited for a dance floor. One of them even had a fancy hat. If they were cold, their faces didn’t show it. They looked serious as they conversed softly with Housemother and Teacher. Another car pulled into the drive, and out stepped three women who seemed much more cheerful. They cooed and clapped their hands, looking delighted at the sight of the children. The ladies’ coats swung wide and ended just below their knees, and they pulled on elegant gloves. One had a pale yellow beret and the other two wore flat black hats that sat like pancakes atop their smooth hair. Jon-Ante had never seen anything like it. The women seemed to feel the same way about them, because now they had come over and were touching the girls’ gákti, feeling the fabric and running their fingers along the bands. Their smiles were so kind and warm that the girls giggled right back. Jon-Ante backed away; he didn’t want them to touch him. But he must have been too cute and small, because soon the woman with the beret was standing in front of him, chirping in a bright voice.

“What a sweet little boy. I’ve always wanted a boy,” she giggled to the woman closest to her.

Jon-Ante could hardly breathe. The fancy ladies and gentlemen hadn’t come to take them somewhere else, to take them home with them, had they? He stared down at his nuvttahat and didn’t smile at all. He would make himself as uninteresting as possible.

“Oh, look, he’s so shy. I suppose they’re like that, these children,” said the woman in a voice he didn’t like. “Are they all real Sámis?” she asked a little louder.

Jon-Ante looked up and saw her waving at Housemother, who plodded over heavily, so different from the women’s dainty steps.

“Yes, they’re all real,” she confirmed.

“It’s so wonderful to see them,” said the woman, trying to tempt Housemother into a grin, but of course it didn’t work.

“The children would like to sing for you,” she said instead.

The women rejoined the men, and Housemother raised her arm and sliced her palm through the air, which was the signal for them to begin. Jon-Ante mouthed along, as always. No one could make him sing aloud in Swedish. It was a psalm, and Else-Maj had the clearest voice of all. She knew every line; most of the girls did. Nilsa and a few of the other rowdy boys didn’t open their mouths, wouldn’t even pretend, and Housemother glared in their direction. They would presumably be on the receiving end of some very hard ear pinches as soon as she got the chance.

The woman in the beret took off one glove and wiped her eyes. As the last note faded away, she applauded enthusiastically. “Absolutely wonderful!”

The girls curtsied and the boys bowed. Nilsa and Guttorm amused themselves by bowing straight into the backs of those in front of them, and the line wobbled, which made Housemother clasp her chest and dart an anxious look in the inspector’s direction.

“Now we’ll take you to see the classrooms,” Teacher said loudly, gesturing with both hands at the school building.

“But first a photo, young man,” said one of the gentlemen. “We must get pictures of the Lapp children.”

Jon-Ante noticed that he spoke like they did on the radio.

When the camera was brought out, the woman in the beret cried, “Smile now, all you lovely children!”

Else-Maj and Biret picked up the Finnish spitz together and grinned. Jon-Ante saw Housemother’s face redden. She marched over and shoved the little ones in the first row aside.

“I’m very sorry,” she blustered over her shoulder. “Certainly there should not be a dog in the photograph.”

“No, let it stay,” called the woman. “A dog is very fitting.”

Jon-Ante didn’t understand what she meant, and Housemother, who had just pinched Else-Maj’s arm, turned around in confusion.

“I see.” She took a step back and let go of Else-Maj. “But won’t that be odd?”

The man with the camera waved her off. “It’ll be marvelous!”

Housemother stepped back, and Jon-Ante saw her grit her teeth before she turned around and made a nonchalant gesture. “Well, you know best.”

So there they stood. Else-Maj and Biret grunted with the effort of holding up the dog. Almost all the children were laughing, mostly at the spitz, which was licking Else-Maj’s face. Jon-Ante still refused to smile even a little bit.

“Now, to the classrooms,” said Teacher, who was freshly shaven in honor of the day, and he walked off with the gentlemen.

Housemother stayed behind with the students and the maids and held a tense index finger to her lips. “Now be quiet.”

“Such well-behaved children you have here,” said the woman in the beret. “Not exactly what one might expect, given that they used to live practically wild out in nature.”

She seemed to want to link arms with Housemother and walk toward the school, but Housemother tucked her hands behind her back and stood there like a company manager. Jon-Ante looked at Else-Maj, who scoffed beside him. She rolled her eyes and muttered to herself.

“I just have a few things to take care of here, and then I’ll be right in,” Housemother said. She turned to Iris and issued instructions in a low voice. “You go help Lisbet set the table and check the dormitories again to make sure all the beds are neatly made.”

The children paraded into the school building and sat at their desks, subdued by the serious nature of the visit. Only the men had come along inside; they could hear the women chatting in the corridor.

“We’ll let the nomad school inspector do his job, but we just wanted to see what the classrooms are like,” one of the men said to Teacher.

“I understand,” he replied, gently dabbing at his hairline with a handkerchief.

Jon-Ante curled up at his desk, heart beating wildly in his chest. If he gave the wrong answer during the examination, what would happen to him?

The inspector had decided that one child at a time would approach him where he sat tucked in the corner, next to the bookcases and the drawings pinned to the wall. Each little ear was on high alert, trying to hear the questions he asked, and no one was able to focus on addition in their math books. Teacher noticed their worry and went over to whisper with the inspector; he returned to the lectern, opened Grimm’s Fairy Tales , and began to read about Hansel and Gretl in a soft voice.

“Next is Jon-Ante,” the inspector cut in, and Teacher had to start his sentence over.

Jon-Ante walked over with his eyes on the floor and bowed slightly when he arrived.

“Sit, boy.”

He slid down onto the chair and tucked his hands under his thighs.

“Let’s see now. I thought you could do some addition for me.” The inspector pushed a pad of paper his way; on it he had written a simple math problem with a plus sign. Even so, Jon-Ante was afraid of being wrong and couldn’t bring himself to answer promptly.

“Should I say it or write it?” he whispered.

“Write, boy. I need to make sure you can use a pencil.”

Jon-Ante gripped the yellow pencil but pressed it too hard to the paper and the tip broke.

“Hmm!” the inspector sighed, placing a fresh pencil before him.

Jon-Ante picked it up, his hand trembling, and tried not to press so hard. But he still felt uncertain, so he dropped the pencil and counted on his fingers to make sure he had added correctly.

“What happened to your little finger?”

Jon-Ante automatically closed his hand into a puny fist. “I…” He couldn’t go on, because tears burned in his eyes. “I…”

“Tell me, boy. I want to hear your version.”

Jon-Ante swallowed, unsure what the man meant by “version.” “I fell on my hand and my finger bent.”

“Aha, is that so. Where?”

“In the dormitory.”

“So no one hurt your finger?” The inspector leaned closer as he aimed a searching look at Jon-Ante.

Suddenly Teacher’s volume increased as he came to the scary part of Hansel and Gretl, where the witch lures them in.

“Come now, tell me,” the inspector urged. “Your father claims that it was your housemother, Rita Olsson, who injured your finger. He sent us a letter.”

It was as if the ground opened up beneath Jon-Ante, as though the underworld were calling to him. He couldn’t imagine Isá writing a letter; Enná must have composed it. And here came the tears. He wiped them away with his left hand.

“So your father is telling the truth?”

How could he choose? Would he be forced to call Isá a liar? But if he told the truth, Housemother would kill him. His tears threatened to become sobs, and he had to take short, sharp breaths to make it stop.

“I need to know exactly what happened.” The inspector had lowered his voice, and Teacher raised his another notch. He had noticed that there was trouble in the corner.

“I’m scared,” Jon-Ante whispered.

“May I see your finger again?” He had smooth hands, with no calluses or grime—Jon-Ante had never seen such hands on a man. He examined Jon-Ante’s hand from all angles and gently moved his little finger in different directions, checking for any reaction on Jon-Ante’s face. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Jon-Ante slowly shook his head. He could picture Isá crying next to his grave. The image appeared in his mind with such clarity that he gasped.

“Do you believe she meant to hurt you?”

Jon-Ante remembered her pinching fingers around his arms, her bared teeth as she shouted at him, his fall to the floor, the pain in his hand. How could he answer that question? “I don’t want to say anything.”

But in fact, he wanted nothing more than to tell the truth. Here they were, the important gentlemen who were in charge of everything, and he wanted to tell them that the children were beaten, he wanted to beg them to take Housemother away and never let her return. He wanted to tell them that Teacher, too, sometimes rapped their knuckles with a ruler. But he didn’t dare. And he couldn’t speak Swedish well enough.

“Perhaps you hadn’t been on your best behavior?”

Jon-Ante closed his eyes for a moment before looking the man straight in the eye. “I am a nice boy.” He sighed. “Ask Anna.” Then he remembered she was gone. “Or Lisbet.”

“Right, Anna. Was she the one who bandaged your finger?”

“Yes.”

“Did she see what happened?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else see?”

He couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to Marge. Her hair was freshly washed and hung like a smooth, dark gold curtain over the back of her chair.

“No, no one,” he said.

The inspector frowned. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“I will have to inform your father, then. And say that he was mistaken.”

Jon-Ante bowed his head so deeply that he felt a pull in his neck. Isá, his wonderful Isá. What would happen to him now?