10. Else-Maj
ELSE-MAJ
1952
The hash on her plate looked congealed, and the smell hung heavy in the dining hall. Else-Maj fought to keep her nausea at bay. She had honestly tried, but it wasn’t just the taste, it was the texture. It grew gummy in her mouth, swollen and impossible to swallow. But she had been at the nomad school for two years now and knew all the rules—no leaving your seat until your plate was cleared. She had seen boys who vomited and were then forced to eat up the mess. The witch would stand beside them, sometimes pinching the backs of their necks, shoving their heads down as they cried.
Outside she heard laughter; she was missing out on the freedom that came after the meal. Lisbet could have excused her, she’d done it before. But once food had been discovered pressed up under the tabletops, there was no longer a chance to slip out. Housemother had gotten involved and now she monitored the dining hall, watching little hands and making sure everyone was chewing.
Lisbet stood in the kitchen, rinsing plates and glancing out at the dining hall now and then with a sigh. She brought a rag and wiped the tables around Else-Maj’s, stealing looks toward the corridor.
“I can’t,” Else-Maj whispered in Finnish. “En voi.”
She wished she could shout that she wanted reindeer meat, salty and delicious, served in small, easy-to-chew pieces. That she wanted whitefish that fell off the bones the second you poked it with a fork. That she wanted fresh boiled potatoes and melted butter to mash together. And Enná’s gáhkku.
“Just try,” Lisbet whispered back.
Housemother coughed from the corridor, prompting Lisbeth to scoot over to the next table. The witch entered and stared in Else-Maj’s direction, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and squinting sternly. She thrust her chin out, and as she clenched her teeth, her jaw grew even wider. “See to it that she eats, even if she has to sit there all night.”
It was Sunday so there was no school—it was the day Else-Maj always longed for. The church forbade them from doing anything that might be against God’s word, but they were allowed to play. She saw her friend Biret peer in toward the dining hall, missing her. Else-Maj slumped down when Housemother finally left.
Suddenly Lisbet was next to her. She held a shushing finger to her lips and in one swipe of the rag caught up the hash. Swiftly she was back in the kitchen, tossing the food into the garbage and rinsing the rag. Else-Maj didn’t dare move. Her breath trembled through her lips but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Lisbet returned and smiled gently. “Drink your milk. You’ll be going to sleep hungry.”
“Better that than the hash.”
Lisbet looked surprised; she must not have expected such a rude response. But Else-Maj was nine now, a big girl, not nearly as timid as before.
She drank the lukewarm milk and wrinkled her nose, anticipating a bellyache. The goat’s milk they drank in the mountains was better.
“Giitu,” she said then, licking her lips. “Kiitos.”
Lisbet patted her cheek and said she could go.
Else-Maj pushed in her chair neatly and dashed out of the dining hall to throw open the front door and inhale the fresh, cold air. Some of the boys were playing reindeer in the yard, making antlers over their heads with their hands as friends threw ropes, homemade lassos. Else-Maj thought they looked silly. Besides, they were no good at throwing.
Biret came up to join her. “Did you get it down?”
“Yes.”
Biret smiled and smoothed the pinafore she always wanted to wear because her áhkku had sewn it, especially now that the old woman was sickly and mostly stayed in bed. Biret came from Vuolle Sohppar, the next village over from Badje Sohppar, where Else-Maj lived, and they became fast friends after meeting at the nomad school. Where Else-Maj was small and slight, Biret was sturdy and tall and had her hair cut short, almost like a boy’s, but her face was sweet with freckles and long eyelashes. Biret only had big brothers, so they both knew what it was like to be bossed around by older siblings. Their common experience bound them together.
Biret took her hand and they walked toward the ditch, where some of their classmates were racing pieces of bark in the burbling water that ran there in the springtime when the snow had melted and the streams overflowed. Only the boys were competing, dashing alongside and cheering on their boats.
The village was thawing and everyone knew what this meant—the calves were on their way. It would soon be time to move across national borders that had never been theirs. The children would get to go home and see their families again. Else-Maj had grown a few centimeters; the arms of her gákti were getting too short. Maybe Enná wouldn’t even recognize her.
This semester had seemed long, her homesickness growing stronger every day. Like the reindeer, she felt that the time had come to start moving. She also looked forward to retrieving the goats that had spent the winter boarding in a neighboring family’s barn.
She watched her big brother Ol-Johan rooting for his bark boat. He hadn’t cared at all when she was left behind on her own with food still on her plate. Sometimes it felt like she didn’t exist.
“Look after her,” Enná had instructed him.
But what did Enná know? Nothing. Her stuora viellja had enough on his plate just pulling through fistfights and didn’t want to look after any unna oabbá. Their three older brothers, who had already left the nomad school and returned home, would have kept an eye on her. But Ol-Johan hadn’t liked her from the start, that was just the truth. There was hardly a year between them. Her muo??á had once said that Ol-Johan was simply jealous, that he had been the baby of the family, displaced by a new one who came along too soon.
Then there was Sara, her dear unna oabbá back home, whom she could hardly bear to think about, whom she missed so much that at times it made her whole body ache. When she wasn’t allowed to cry, holding in all that sadness made her joints and muscles hurt. Sara was about to turn five, and Else-Maj would miss yet another of her birthdays. May 15 was Sara’s special day. She had been born in the best month. Enná liked to joke about how she and the cows had all been expecting that spring, but she was the first to give birth. Else-Maj had only been four years old, but even so she remembered holding her unna oabbá for the first time. She had remained glued to Sara’s side ever since, until school separated them. “She was like your doll,” Enná had told her. No, that wasn’t right, Else-Maj thought when she heard Enná repeat that line. Sara wasn’t like a doll at all, Sara was her everything.
It was too much, and Else-Maj tugged at Biret’s arm, wanting to get away, to stop thinking. “Let’s pick flowers for Anna,” she said.
Biret pursed her lips. She knew Else-Maj was Anna’s favorite and was a bit jealous.
Teacher had taught them the names of flowers that didn’t grow here. Coltsfoot. Harebell. Nothing that could tolerate the poor soil or cold, short summers. All that grew here were dandelions and globeflowers the insects liked to hide in.
“There aren’t any flowers yet,” said Biret.
Sure enough, Biret was right. Else-Maj had been longing her way into the future again: already standing in the green foliage, running through the meadow in the village, hearing the mosquitoes buzz in her ear, holding her little sister’s hand in her own.
“Then let’s race.”
Biret looked grumpy at the idea, but Else-Maj wouldn’t give up. She drew a line on the ground with the heel of her shoe and shouted that they would start on three. Touch the side of the dormitory. “Okta, guokte, golbma!”
And off she shot, her skirt flapping around her legs and her arms pumping as fast as they would go. Biret ran at her side, but then she fell behind and had to watch Else-Maj slap her palm against the wall.
Others wandered over; they wanted to race too. Else-Maj extended the line and they arranged themselves along it. She was the shortest, but that didn’t matter—if there was anything she’d learned from her brothers, it was how to run. She felt sure she’d win. But then the big boys showed up. They stood around and watched as the little kids raced and Else-Maj, once again, was first to reach the finish line.
“Us too,” they said, crowding their way onto the starting line.
The little ones drooped, knowing they didn’t have a chance, wanting to give up. But not Else-Maj. She took her mark, one foot in front of the other, bent her knees slightly, and held her breath.
The big kids took off before three and she was behind them, looking at their backs and longer legs. She saw three of them smack the wall. She came in fourth, despite not even reaching their shoulders, but no one thought about that. The big boys hooted and cheered over their win.
Else-Maj turned on her heel and stormed off toward the woods behind the dormitory. The injustice was too much, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears.
Anna was hanging laundry on the line when she saw Else-Maj speed off with Biret close behind. “Come here, girls,” she called as they tried to hide in the brushy thicket. She fastened a clothespin on a kitchen towel that was flapping in the breeze.
Else-Maj didn’t know if she should let the tears flow or be like her big brothers and sulk stoically.
“Here,” Anna said, holding out her hand as she glanced over at the schoolyard.
Into her palm dropped two pieces of candy, a little sweat-sticky from the warmth of Anna’s body. Biret’s eyes lit up and in an instant one piece was in her mouth. Else-Maj held hers until it was stuck to her skin. She would eat the piece of candy first and then lick her palm.
The girls thanked Anna and smiled wide. A lump was visible in Biret’s cheek; she was in heaven. This was nothing new for Else-Maj—Anna had given her candy before. But she wasn’t sure if she wanted to share Anna with Biret. Anna must have noticed she was lost in thought but couldn’t have known why; she tickled Else-Maj under the chin with her index finger until they were looking at each other.
“I saw who really won that race,” she said.