C3 Chapter 3

The hospital wasn’t that old but it had been poorly built and had quickly become shabby. It was also neglected. Cobwebs fluttered under the grey-black roof and the paint was peeling. Nobody gave a thought to the balls of fluff that stirred under the beds every time a door was opened.

This was the public hospital. Usually, members of the “public” were treated at home under the random care of more or less devoted relatives. Only those without any relatives would go to the hospital. It might as well have been called a home for paupers, had it not been for a charitable Christian organization that wanted to do something for the most insignificant members of society, placing an operating theatre at the disposal of the doctor and his small staff. There wasn’t enough money for any effective treatment, and whenever a sick person was shown the mercy of being admitted to this hospital, the poor patient would cry bitterly as he took stock of his life. And rightly so.

The death rate was staggering, and those who survived left sicker than they had been when they were admitted. Well, that was probably an exaggeration, but it was certainly not a presentable hospital.

The doctor was doing his usual round, visiting the long-term sick. He stopped by a bed and sighed: “Is it worth keeping this man here?”

The deaconess who was accompanying him stepped forward and, with pious reproach in her voice, said: “We can’t put him on the street!”

“No, of course not,” the doctor muttered. “I suppose he has nowhere to go. Wasn’t there someone else with him?”

“Yes, she’s in the women’s ward. They’re a problem, but our sense of mercy tells us that they must stay here.”

“Isn’t there a nursing home they can be moved to? They’re taking up the beds that others need!”

“We simply haven’t enough beds at the moment. We just have to wait for somebody to die.”

“That is if these two aren’t the first to go,” the doctor said quietly. “This one is so emaciated. Does he eat at all?”

“The sisters of mercy feed him. They manage to get him to eat a bit morning and evening. But he doesn’t respond at all.”

The doctor lifted the man’s hand, which rested limply on the grey woollen blanket. “Only two fingers left. The other hand isn’t much better. But at least we succeeded in stopping the gangrene in his feet. Although ... what’s the point?”

The doctor turned back to the deaconess. “And the woman? Is she showing any signs of improvement?”

“She has a good appetite and is recovering. But she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself outside the hospital. Her mind is completely confused.”

“What does she say about that?”

“She just talks rubbish. Not even in our language: I don’t understand a word of it.”

“And they were the only ones who survived?”

“Yes, all the others perished.”

The doctor sighed once more, gazing for quite a while at the exhausted man in the bed. His eyes were closed and he was so skinny he looked like a shadow.

“He’ll have to stay here until we can find some space in a rest home. It’s hopeless for people like him who have no close relatives. There ought to be a law ...”

He didn’t finish the sentence but merely walked on. The deaconess looked stern, because she understood very well what the doctor had wanted to say. She would take care of the poor man and the woman, though as it was only her mind that was frail they would probably find a place for her in a home for people with her kind of health problem. Things would be far more difficult for this handsome man ...

THE VOICES, AGAIN!

He had been hearing the voices for quite a long time but had been unable to reply. Now and then he thought that he answered, but it was as if he didn’t say anything. He was just so very tired and all he wanted was to sleep. These people who turned up every now and then, trying to force him to open his mouth ... they annoyed him but he was unable to defend himself. Some sort of gruel trickled into his mouth and he had to swallow it. What they poured into him was sticky. Most often, it would get stuck in his throat.

What was going on? Where was he, and why wasn’t his brain functioning? As soon as he tried to shape a thought, it was scattered like a veil of mist by a puff of wind. He couldn’t even remember or grasp who he was. Occasionally, faces and names whirled through his dazed mind, then they were gone before he had time to catch them.

Did somebody ... need to be told?

No, no, that thought slipped away again.

One day, there was a new voice among the others, an authoritative voice he hadn’t heard before. The problem was that he had great difficulty in understanding what all these people said as they stood around him in the void. He was only able to catch a few words, which he would quickly forget. He thought they spoke so fast and they didn’t articulate very clearly.

But this new voice was loud and clear. It spoke a peculiar language but now he was beginning to understand it a bit better. The man with the high voice said something about being given the wrong treatment. Bla-bla-bla was missing. The food was too poor and nobody would ever be able to get well on that gruel he was being served. Well, anyway, the high voice said that it was a fine hospital but what else could you expect in the provinces because, of course, they didn’t have bla-bla-bla.

After some time, he didn’t know how long, he could feel that he was getting better. Could it be because the food had improved? He wasn’t quite so exhausted and his eyelids didn’t feel like lead any more. One day, he was able to lift his hand. Only it felt rather odd. Was there something the matter with it?

He was beginning to remember. Small hints. Most of all he felt a terrible anxiety. Anxiety on behalf of somebody else, somebody he was fond of. And for the one who had to be told. The one who touched his heart; somebody it hurt to think about because this ... this little ... warmed his heart ...? The memory slipped away from him once more.

His eyelids ...

There was an exclamation near him. “Doctor! He’s opening his eyes!”

There was bustle and noise around him.

A voice: “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

The voice was irritatingly close to him, shouting in his face. “Can you hear me?” He tried to open his eyes again but couldn’t. Tried to move a finger but the finger wasn’t there.

“He’s moving his lips, did you see? He’s trying to say something.”

“Nurse, bring us something strong! Some schnapps!”

It hurt and burnt his mouth. But it was also a good feeling, because he recognized the taste. He pulled back, turned his face away, suddenly remembering that it was something that was forbidden to him.

He had swallowed a few drops and he coughed. Gasped for breath. Then he came round.

Now it was easier to open his eyes.

A grim, grey ceiling. He had seen that before so he must have been awake now and then. A whole circle of faces stared down at him. They were all unknown to him, but he noticed the stern but kind face of a woman. She wasn’t young but she would understand. He knew that. She showed sympathy for him. The women wore nurses’ uniforms, or were they known as deaconesses?

He tried to say something but his voice was only a hoarse noise. Finally, he managed to speak, all the while gazing at the stern woman: “Where am I?”

She replied matter-of-factly: “You’re in Thisted, Denmark. Are you Norwegian?”

He tried to think. “Yes, I think so.”

They looked at one another. “Oh, Norwegian! The other one speaks a language that is impossible to understand.”

Which other one? he wanted to ask. But now he had no more energy, and he sank onto his pillow. He didn’t feel what they did to him, how they shook him to bring him round again and speak more. A few days passed before he was able to open his eyes again, this time for longer. The stern but kind deaconess came in from time to time, trying to get through to him, but he was too tired, too weak and exhausted.

Then came the morning when she came in, and he could feel how his confused thoughts were beginning to stick in his mind.

There was something he had to ask her about.

“The ... the other one?” he said hoarsely.

“Which other one?” she asked.

He had forgotten what he had wanted to say.

Gradually, the images came back. The anxiety was there. Not anxiety for himself but for the one in his arms, somebody who was about to die. He had to protect that person. Day and night, he had tried to protect ...

The cold, the thirst ...

He had never felt so cold.

A terrible memory engulfed him. Water! Water, water everywhere; ice cold, salty water. He hated it because it would take his dear one from him.

Yet hatred hadn’t been the fiercest sensation. Loving care had been stronger. Most of all, he had felt this for the woman he held in his arms.

“Belinda!” he said in a loud voice.

The deaconess was in the room. She immediately turned around and spoke to him. “What did you say?”

“Belinda! Her name’s Belinda!”

“Who?”

“My wife. I held her in my arms. Where is she? Is she alive, I want ...”

He became very restless, much more than was good for him.

“Now, now, take it easy,” said the deaconess, taking a firm grip on him in his bed.

“The other one? You spoke about the other one,” he gasped as he felt that he was becoming weak again. He was in despair, he just had to know before he lost consciousness again.

The deaconess sat on the edge of his bed, holding him down resolutely.

“Now listen, young man ...”

He didn’t feel all that young; nevertheless he began to relax. He felt it was the best thing for him.

“You came here in a small boat,” said the deaconess in a serious voice. “A dinghy. A fishing boat discovered it floating about off the coast. There were four people in the dinghy. Two were dead. Frozen to death. You and a woman only just survived.”

“Was I holding her in my arms?” he interrupted her.

“I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that she’s in this hospital but has lost her senses. No wonder, after all the hardship you must have suffered.”

Belinda? That wonderful little creature had never been very bright. What it boiled down to was that she was backward. She had never been deranged.

“I must see her!”

The deaconess hesitated. “I’ll try to arrange it. But don’t raise your hopes. It could be somebody else, and you’ll be terribly disappointed at her mental state.”

He nodded eagerly. The most important thing was to find out. He could feel his heart beating so that it was about to burst, and he realized that this agitation wouldn’t be good for him, but he couldn’t help that. If only he could remain conscious now, then everything else was unimportant.

The nurse seemed doubtful as she looked about the room. For the first time, he realized that he wasn’t alone. There were a lot of beds, covered in dark grey, miserable linen, and in them were men, most of them old and beyond any human contact, while others just gazed emptily at him. Someone moaned continuously somewhere in the ward. If you could call this humble room a ward. There was an acrid, penetrating stench over everything, though he didn’t notice it so much because he had got used to it. Almost, anyway. Not even the smell of carbolic acid could drown out that stench.

He could well understand why the deaconess hesitated. Could you bring a woman in here? But he could not leave his bed so he asked her very nicely to bring the unknown woman from the boat.

Finally she nodded and left, saying that she would talk it over with the doctor.

While he waited, he tried to picture himself, tried to visualize himself through the eyes of others. Above all, he wanted to make a good impression. Now he knew who he was. He was Viljar Lind of the Ice People, and the other little creature that warmed his heart and who most definitely needed to be told that he was alive was his son, Henning, back in Norway.

Everything was coming back to him now. He wondered how long he had been lying in bed. His instinct told him that it must be quite a long time. He put his hand to his chin and discovered that he had a long beard, he who had always been clean shaven. He also registered something else. The hand that stroked his chin was badly wounded. He hardly dared to look at his hands. When he finally did so, he felt deep sorrow. Nearly all his fingers were gone. He had lost a part of himself. He would never be able to see those fingers, the ones he had been used to seeing during his long life. It was a very peculiar and odd sensation.

He hid his hands with difficulty under the worn blanket.

The deaconess was taking her time. Wouldn’t they come soon? He was tired and needed to sleep, but the anticipation of seeing the woman kept him awake.

What if it wasn’t Belinda after all? What if she was gone forever?

No, he wouldn’t be able to take it, not after all this!

What if she didn’t recognize him? After all, he had lost such an awful lot of weight, he was just skin and bone. His hair was messy and long, his eyes were big in his gaunt face. He thought he must resemble John the Baptist in the desert, he who had lived on grasshoppers and let his hair and beard grow and his clothes become old and shabby. And now he wanted to look good for Belinda’s sake! It was as if he was to meet her for the first time.

Provided, of course, that it was Belinda.

He tried to remember the others in the little boat. They had been six to begin with. A couple had vanished in the sea. The two who were left ...?

By then he had been so exhausted, so confused from hunger and cold that he was unable to move. All he remembered were his arms that had held the unconscious Belinda. Wasn’t there somebody else in the boat as well? Yes, there was.

She might be the one who was in this hospital.

Not that he wanted anyone to die but ...

The door opened. The deaconess entered, leading a woman by the hand.

He tried to say: “Belinda!” but he was so moved that he was unable to speak.

“This is your wife,” the deaconess said and led Belinda to his bed. Her entrance caused quite a stir in the ward, but the nurse told the other patients to be quiet.

“Here’s your husband. Do you recognize him?”

Belinda’s eyes? Good heavens, what had happened to her?

She looked at him with an empty, enquiring expression on her face. She seemed a little frightened. And yet? Didn’t she seem to wonder? As if at a person you know you’ve met but can’t really place?

Something about the man in the bed seemed to register in Belinda’s mind. She was dressed in the hospital’s simple floppy gown, and she was thin and unkempt, but he thought that she was just as beautiful as always. In Viljar’s view, Belinda had always been a beauty even if others might have considered her quite ordinary. He was so immensely fond of her and it hurt him so much to see her like this, beyond all human reason. He wanted to caress her cheek as he always had, because he wanted her to know that it was him. But he didn’t dare show her his hands, didn’t want to frighten her as she stood there, scared, nervous, ready to flee from this virtual stranger in the bed.

The confused look in her eyes! She looked like a lost child.

He could hardly see her because his eyes were brimming with tears.

Then she began to speak.

Viljar got a shock. He understood the meaningless words. He turned to the deaconess and said: “It’s many years since I heard her talk like that. This was how she used to burble to our son when he was a baby. He’s the one she’s talking to now.”

The deaconess said nothing. She was just terribly sad. She thought it meant that the son had been with them in the boat and that losing him was why Belinda was now in a bad mental state.

“Belinda, do you recognize me?” he asked her in despair. “I’m your husband, Viljar! We’ve spent so many years together.”

A shadow glided over her eyes but they were still just as empty as before. Immense sorrow gripped him and he let out a painful sob. He was in a daze: his body and his mind were unable to accept this terrible disappointment, this despair at seeing his dearest friend like this.

There was so much he wanted to say to her. But everything became too much for him, no matter how hard he tried to fight against it.

But Belinda stayed. She sat on the edge of his bed, burbling to him like a baby. The deaconess gazed at her. All Belinda’s movements, her voice and her expressions, were very confusing. She didn’t seem to know who she was dealing with, it was merely a creature who needed her assistance – just as a baby does. This was exactly how her husband seemed to her now: an infant. Someone she could burble to and take care of. The deaconess wondered what was going on in her mind right now and what she was thinking. Her husband didn’t seem to frighten her; on the contrary, she probably vaguely remembered him. But she seemed to be unable to order her thoughts about him and reality.

Poor woman! She must be terribly confused.

The deaconess tried to take her back to the women’s ward. Then Belinda clung onto the edge of the bed with her hands, horrified at the thought of having to leave this man who depended on her.

Depended on her? The deaconess was a true Christian. She didn’t think of her own salvation, but focused on the fact that Belinda felt an instinctive responsibility for the man.

She asked Belinda: “Can you help me cut his hair and shave his beard?”

To her own surprise, the deaconess discovered that this was the way to reach Belinda. Nobody had been able to establish contact with her before, but now Belinda grasped what she was talking about.

It was an enormous step forward.

The deaconess immediately got hold of a pair of scissors and everything else that was needed. No time was wasted at all!

It was as if Belinda’s apathetic mind came alive when she had somebody to care for. She treated the unconscious Viljar so carefully that the deaconess was quite touched. When his beard had gone and his hair had been cut, it was as if a new and more alert Belinda had woken up, and her eyes showed that she was puzzled.

The deaconess thought that sooner or later Belinda would recognize him. Was that really a good idea? Because it would also trigger the memory that Belinda had lost her son. Wouldn’t it be better for her to stay in her present state? In her own fantasy world?

When evening fell, the deaconess had to cajole Belinda to return to the women’s ward. She promised the confused woman that she would certainly be allowed to tend to the man the following day. When the deaconess entered the sickroom the following morning, Belinda was already sitting on the edge of Viljar’s bed, spoon-feeding him with the nourishing gruel they had been giving him recently, which was doing him so much good. He was no longer so deeply unconscious. He seemed to be half asleep, dozing, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to eat.

The other men in the hall were extremely interested in Belinda’s presence. Some were shocked, others were quite cheeky. The rest of them were beyond any human contact and didn’t grasp anything.

But all Belinda saw was Viljar.

The deaconess wanted to speak to the doctor about their progress. He immediately saw an opportunity. “Get them out of here so that we can make room for new patients! The queue is endless. Let her nurse him! He’s getting stronger by the day, and then he’ll be able to take care of her.”

“The trouble is they have nowhere to go!”

“Old Jepsen at Hvidemose needs to be admitted but they haven’t been able to take him because of the shortage of beds. Just let them swap beds with him!”

“Jepsen’s house is out in the wilderness. It’s a miserable little hovel, that’s what it is.”

They discussed the problem a little until the deaconess gave in. As she had become attached to the unfortunate couple, she personally saw to it that they were conveyed to Jepsen’s little house and that they had food and fuel to last them for some time. When they had been brought to the hospital, Viljar had had a purse, which he carried close to his body. The deaconess had taken care of it for him, and now she returned it to him, placing it around his neck where it used to be.

“May the Lord be with you,” she whispered when they had been placed in the cart. He was dozing, as usual, while the woman was confused but happy to have him to take care of. The cart carried the bedridden and very weak Jepsen back to the hospital.

Now Belinda was alone with her dazed patient. She tried to do her very best, though she was admittedly clumsy. She wasn’t capable of taking care of herself, let alone somebody else.

However, there were no limits to what she wanted to do for this man. She didn’t know who he was, only that she somehow knew him and that he needed her. In that filthy little hovel, full of smelly old rags and bad food, among the mice and the lice, there was only one thought in her mind: She wanted her “little baby” to have a good time. She didn’t know how to clean the place. But she fed Viljar and nursed him as if he were a prince. In due course he woke up, but was much too weak to do anything but accept her loving care.

Viljar understood perfectly well that he wasn’t in such a miserable state just from having frozen in a small open boat for an unknown number of days, although those days had been tough. After all, most of the people in the boat had perished, having frozen to death or died from hunger, he didn’t know which. Probably both. No, he was very sick, and he believed he knew the cause. He had an extremely vague memory of pain in his chest and an irritating cough, probably during his first weeks in hospital. The acute danger was over, but he had contracted something in his lungs – he could feel that when he moved or breathed deeply. Once, when Belinda was out, he had had a very bad attack of coughing and had coughed up some blood. He had managed to hide it from Belinda because he didn’t think she could cope with real sickness.

Viljar was afraid. How would Belinda manage on her own without him? They needed to get home very soon, and here he was, completely helpless! He couldn’t even speak. Nevertheless, he felt that she was his responsibility. The two of them together were really quite touching.

The deaconess had thought the same. She often speculated about them now, wondering how they were getting on, and wanted so much to see them. However, there were far too many patients who needed her in the hospital, and she never had a spare moment. Every poor soul who was admitted had his or her own life story, his or her own fate, his or her immense tragedy. The deaconess was supposed to have a heart and an ear for them all. So she had to force herself to forget the Norwegian couple, who lived much too far away for her to be able to take time off to journey out to them.

Jepsen wouldn’t be going back to his house. Going into hospital had been such a tremendous upheaval that he had died from the shock. Or perhaps he thought that he had gone to heaven, blissfully asleep? Anyway, Belinda and Viljar weren’t told anything about his fate, and they felt, of course, that they were living in somebody else’s house, which is never a pleasant feeling.

Finally, one day, Viljar felt strong enough to speak again, which he hadn’t been able to since he was in the hospital.

“Belinda,” he whispered hoarsely.

She jumped up and turned to him. She stared at him with surprised eyes and said: “Sssh!”

He couldn’t explain that they were man and wife, or anything of that sort. He felt that he had to save his energy.

“Belinda, you must write home.”

Oh, how the thought had tormented him during all this long time when he hadn’t been able to move a finger, or utter a sound.

She just stared at him, utterly confused.

“I ... just haven’t got the strength to write, Belinda. I can’t, because I have nothing to hold a pen with. You must write to Henning, our little boy, so that he knows that we’re alive!”

Belinda shook her head vigorously, holding her hands over her ears as if she couldn’t bear to hear what he said.

“Dearest Belinda, you do remember Henning, don’t you?” he asked earnestly.

She did, albeit in the wrong way. “Henning’s too small. He can’t read, surely you understand,” she answered, and those were Belinda’s first words in a normal language.

“Henning is eleven years old!”

She was terribly frightened. “No, no,” she gasped. “You mustn’t say that. He’s only a baby.”

Viljar closed his eyes. “And who am I, Belinda?”

“Little child.”

“No, no, no, now you’re really imagining things. I’m Henning’s father, and you’re his mother, Belinda. Why are you doing this? What is it you’re frightened of? What is it you don’t want to admit?”

She didn’t reply, but her face was sad.

“Well, then. Write a letter to Saga,” he said wearily. He could hardly be bothered to speak any more.

Now Belinda was profoundly surprised. “Saga? Who’s Saga?”

Oh, God, how was he to reach her? “Dearest friend, can’t you just write a letter? Without so many questions?”

At first she stood like a drooping flower. Puzzled, baffled and sad. Then at last she said something intelligent: “I haven’t any paper.”

Viljar shouldn’t have become angry; she couldn’t help her confusion. But he opened his mouth because he wanted to shout that she should damn well get hold of some paper. Then something went wrong in his lungs and he began to cough very badly. Afterwards, he could only remember fragments – Belinda’s horrified expression, the blood on the linen cloth she was holding in her hand – then everything was dark around him.

His final thought was extremely dejected.

We’ll never get home.

The deaconess looked at the priest with delight when he visited the hospital.

“Are you going to Norway? Really?”

He gave her a smile. They knew each other well. “Are you pleased to be getting rid of me for a while?”

“No, of course not, but I’d like to ask you to do me a great favour ...”

“Of course, you know I always listen to your small requests.”

The deaconess wrung her hands. “This isn’t a small request, but it’s something that’s been on my mind for so long now, and it’s been a heavy burden.”

“Tell me,” said the priest in a friendly tone.

Then the deaconess told the vicar about the Norwegian couple that she had had to send away from hospital and that she was so concerned about. They were unable to take care of themselves really, but what could she have done? Would the priest be prepared to take them with him to Norway? They had some money, but she didn’t know whether there was enough.

The priest looked concerned. This wasn’t quite what he had expected, but he would soon be on his way to Norway and so felt he couldn’t turn down the request. He was to go by boat from Frederikshavn to Christiania, so the first leg of the journey would be by coach. And with two sick people ...? And then on board a boat, which was much worse! On top of that, he supposed that he would have to see to it that the couple reached home – wherever that was – safe and sound. His careful travel plan wasn’t working out.

With an audible sigh, the priest said: “Of course, I’ll take care of them.”

He was horrified when he arrived at Mr Jepsen’s house. Were these the people he was supposed to take with him? A dying man, with a serious lung infection, and a totally confused woman? What would his fellow passengers say, not to mention the captain? Perhaps they would have to turn around on the quay?

But in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. He had the right attitude to his faith and undertook this journey as a cross he would have to bear. He felt that God was testing him, to see how faithful and humble a servant he was.

Travelling by horse and coach across the Jutland moors would be unpleasant and take time. Viljar had recovered from his violent haemorrhage by now, but it had left him so weak that he was unable to speak. The effort of whispering was too much of a strain, so he stayed silent. But he had grasped what the kind priest had said: they would be on their way to Norway! Could anybody have come up with a happier piece of good news? He had given up trying to make Belinda understand that she had to write a letter. He was too scared to raise the subject of Henning again. He could see that she wasn’t quite so confused as before. Now at least she was speaking fairly intelligibly.

The journey to Norway didn’t register with her. Her world was limited to the fact that she went on treating him as a baby, but she didn’t burble quite so badly now. Viljar felt that this was a big step forward.

They reached Frederikshavn one evening in spring, and drove the horses right down to the harbour because they had been woefully delayed by all the stops they had made on the way for Viljar’s sake. In the harbour came the next shock. The ship was there, ready to leave the next morning. However, when Belinda understood that they were about to embark, she screamed like crazy.

“No, no! Not for anything, never on a boat! Never!”

The priest’s assurances that if they were to reach Norway they had to go by sea were lost on Belinda.

“Never, never!” she yelled, and people crowded around them. Viljar understood her perfectly well. She wasn’t as robust as he was, and he also felt extremely nauseous, a deep, underlying protest at the thought of embarking on a ship and having to face the cruel, cold water once more.

He wanted to tell her that spring was just around the corner and that it wasn’t quite so stormy and cold any more. But he couldn’t speak because his lungs couldn’t cope.

He felt utterly dejected and disappointed, lying there on the stretcher.

We’ll never reach home, he thought, exhausted.