37. Else-Maj
ELSE-MAJ
1955
Her lungs burned deep down; her nose hairs were frozen and sharp, and her hair glittered with frost left by her breath. Else-Maj and Anne-Risten were all bundled up, but it was impossible to protect yourself from the chill when it was twenty-eight below. They didn’t speak, keeping their faces hidden under their shawls; only their eyes were visible and their eyebrows ached with the cold. They walked silently in their nuvttahat. Else-Maj’s enná had stitched hers for her before she left for school. She had cried salty tears into the reindeer hide. It was like walking in sorrow’s shoes. The upturned toe caught up snow with every step.
“We’re going to be dead meat when we come back,” Anne-Risten muttered behind her shawl. “And we’ll get sick!”
The village was silent and still, most people staying indoors. But Else-Maj would not relent, Anne-Risten had to take her to see Anna’s siessá. They weren’t allowed to go out, but Else-Maj had caught a whiff of Vademecum in the corridor and knew the witch must have taken to her bed with a headache. She had snuck out with Anne-Risten close behind. Else-Maj had warned her not to cry, telling her that her tears would freeze and make her go blind. It wasn’t true, but that was the way to frighten Anne-Risten.
They went past the store and the houses, whose chimneys billowed smoke almost around the clock these days.
Anne-Risten pointed. “There, by the bend.”
They had nearly reached the house, and Anna’s siessá Inger was in the kitchen window, as though she were expecting them. She waved them inside. The door whined, protesting the cold, and they quickly closed it behind them. The warmth thawed her face, but it still felt stiff.
“Bohtet sisa, nieiddat.” The Sámi words welcomed the girls into the kitchen and Anne-Risten looked smug as she headed that way, eager to show that she knew this house.
“Na, juoa, Anne-Risten.” The older woman in the kitchen smiled, then looked with cloudy but curious eyes at Else-Maj. “Gean nieida don leat?”
Else-Maj recited the names, ending with her own. Inger nodded, her smile growing larger, happy to know whose little girl she was. But then a brief shadow crossed the woman’s face.
“Du oabbá, Sara.” She shook her head and sighed loudly. “ ? ohkket,” she said, pointing at the kitchen bench. They sat.
Else-Maj’s fingers were red when she took off her mittens. Soon they would prickle and burn.
“So, why have such lovely girls come to see me today?” She sat down at the kitchen table and gazed at them with interest.
“We want to know where Anna went,” Anne-Risten said.
“She’s back in A ? evuopmi.”
Else-Maj watched closely for a reaction in the old woman’s face. “Why?”
“That’s just what happened.” Inger stood up and put some wood on the fire. “But it sure is lonely around here without her.”
She stopped and touched the small of her back, pain on her face.
“I don’t suppose you two drink coffee?”
They shook their heads.
“Was she sad when she left?” asked Anne-Risten “Or did she want to quit?”
Inger sat down again and ran her hand across the table, back and forth. “Well, there’s not much to be done about it now, in any case.”
“Did she talk about…” Else-Maj hesitated; she wanted to say “me” but couldn’t. “… us?”
“Goodness, yes, she talked about all of you. Oh, how she liked you children and wanted to help.”
“Was Housemother the one who sent Anna away?”
“That could be, I don’t know. But I do know Anna only wanted to do the right thing, especially for your oabbá.”
Else-Maj glanced down at her hands as she felt her throat constrict. The rock of grief throbbed in her chest. Out of nowhere, a sob escaped her. Inger shuffled over to sit beside her.
“Oh, oh, there, there.” The old woman’s hand was warm and dry as it enveloped Else-Maj’s. Inger hugged and jostled her gently in turns, as if to shake loose the rock, as though she knew it was there inside her chest. But it had melded itself to her ribs. “God always takes the good ones first.”
Else-Maj had heard this at the funeral too. The women howling in sorrow, trying to find comfort in the fact that Sara was gone so young. But then what did it mean for Else-Maj to be left behind? She wanted to slap them, make them take back what they’d said. Enná wasn’t comforted by those sentiments either, but she didn’t say anything to Else-Maj, never explained anything, just stood there in silence.
“But God isn’t supposed to take little children,” Else-Maj said now, although her throat was tight and really didn’t want to let out any words. She dared to glance up, too, and she could tell that Inger wasn’t angry. Else-Maj didn’t want to blame God, because after all, it was when she spoke to Him that she felt relief. In the dormitory at night, sweaty hands under the covers, resting on her chest where the grief wouldn’t budge, not even by prayer. But sometimes there were little puffs of calm that she tried to capture.
“God doesn’t take children to be cruel,” Inger said slowly. “And God didn’t make your sister sickly.”
Anne-Risten listened to them with her mouth open and a worried look in her eyes. She had stuck her hand under the arm of her coat and Else-Maj knew she would scratch the skin there until it was flaming red.
“I want Anna to come back.” Else-Maj sounded grumpy and childish, but she didn’t feel ashamed.
“I do too, but I’m afraid that won’t happen. She has a new job now, helping a family with lots of children.”
“Is she sad?” Anne-Risten had taken off her hat and was squeezing it.
“Yes, I’m sure she was sad to go. She thinks about you children all the time.”
“Can you ask her to come back?”
“No, sweetheart, I can’t.”
“Can you tell her hi from us?”
“Yes, I’ll do that next time she calls.”
Else-Maj looked at Anne-Risten, who was smiling, comforted for now. Else-Maj, though, felt heavy. And alone. She wiped her eyes.
Anne-Risten squirmed and whispered that she had to pee, and Inger told her she knew where to go. Else-Maj couldn’t stand her friend’s self-important face.
Inger had released her hand, but now she leaned toward her, as though inhaling her scent.
“She talked about you the most. You two had something special, I gather,” she said softly. “And Sara, she’ll always be with you. You know that, don’t you?”
Else-Maj had heard other adults say so, but it wasn’t true. She sometimes reached out a hand, swept it back and forth, looking for the resistance that would be Sara. Nothing.
“You’re little right now, but it will become clearer later, when you’re grown.”
But “grown” was a different time, one she couldn’t even comprehend. Else-Maj didn’t play along, didn’t smile nicely.
“Oh, Else-Maj, I know you think nothing will ever be good again. But there are so many wonderful things ahead of you.”
She’d heard this before too, and she stood up; she didn’t want to be rude, but those were only words. Inger let her be.
Anne-Risten came back and stood next to Else-Maj.
“It was lovely of you to come by, girls, and I’ll tell Anna hello. I know that will make her happy.” Inger stood up straight and put her hands on her hips.
Else-Maj gave a slight nod and headed for the hall. Anne-Risten followed, calling “Báze dearvan” back toward the kitchen and receiving a “Manni dearvan” in return.
They wound their shawls over their faces again. Cold steam appeared in the hall as they opened the door and Anne-Risten coughed when the chill reached her lungs.
“We’re going to get so sick. Hey, what did she say to you, anyway? Enná says Inger can see things.”
Else-Maj shot her a long look and something inside her resisted the idea. That wouldn’t be so strange; people like that existed. There were some in her extended family, and they were around the village. But she’d had a hard time forgetting the sermon at the Laestadian meeting she attended with Enná last summer. The preacher who said it was the devil who gave people dangerous habits and abilities. Hadn’t he said something like that? Oh, Else-Maj didn’t know what to believe. But Inger, at least, didn’t seem dangerous.
“Nothing special,” she said to Anne-Risten.
“We have to finish sewing our coffee pouches now.”
Else-Maj’s was pretty: smooth leather and pewter wire on red fabric. She had inherited Enná’s nimble fingers and had an eye for dimension and color. Housemother often sat in the common room with the girls, embroidery in hand. They were spared her presence whenever she had a headache; hopefully that would be the case today.
They passed the store. The village was still quiet, and it felt as though no one else existed. Else-Maj felt that vast loneliness again. It welled over her, like a threat from the stars to pull the entire sky down on top of them. She began to run. If she got out of breath it would hurt deep down in her lungs. But she wouldn’t die, because God only took children who were good.