Ulla-Lena Lundberg - Ice

Yes, Doctor Gyllen has passed her Finnish medical exam, grilled by a professor with an aversion to her Russian accent who hunts for a weak spot that will bring her down. Little does he realize that he is a trifling amateur beside the tyrants she has had to deal with. One little Russophobe? Ha! A pinprick. Somewhat foreign in her oral presentation, but an admirable grasp of the clinical questions, impossible to shake her professional expertise in that area, and superb when it comes to her speciality, gynaecology and obstetrics. Harrumph, but unquestionably approved with honours.

Helsingfors no longer frightening, unnatural, but unsuspecting, safe. Nice to stay with Mama and Papa, comfortable. Opera in the evening after the exam, shopping the next day—hard to imagine what to wear. Mama buys appropriate presents for the Hindrikses and suggests that she herself buy a suit, walking shoes, winter boots, rubber boots, blouses, a new skirt, undergarments. A jacket, a winter coat, maybe ski pants and a windbreaker for night calls in winter. Oh, she could buy a house for all the money spent, some of it Papa’s. She also sees to the Örlands’ medicinal needs, and her own, and discusses some purchases for the Health Care Centre with the National Board of Health. They apologize for all the forms and papers and, her guard down for one moment, she laughs. “For a person coming from Russia …”

And then a thing that she will touch on briefly when the priest asks about it: a visit to Papa’s diplomatic friends, to the foreign office, to the President’s chancellery, to the Red Cross and the Salvation Army, to contacts within emigrant circles, to the Mannerheim League for Child Welfare. Even a letter of appeal to the Soviet Union’s newly expanded legation in Helsingfors. Nothing.

Back to the Örlands, warm congratulations, great sadness. Of course the Örlands haven’t a chance of keeping their own doctor. Doctor Gyllen’s four years become a happy interlude when, thanks to strict Finnish regulations, they had a doctor and a midwife of their own, four years when all the babies born can be identified by their deep, well-hidden Russian navels. Now Doctor Gyllen is looking for a job somewhere else. She has a hard time with Finnish and wants to stay on Åland, and there’s a position open in a clinic in the northern archipelago, which of course she gets. The Health Care Centre on the Örlands isn’t finished yet, and she won’t have a chance to enjoy any of its benefits. That’s just the way it is, she says, you leave places you’ve loved and learn to appreciate other places. Soon, the Örlands will get a registered nurse instead, and then it will be good to have a brand-new building to go with the job.

Sadness and activity. Money is collected from every farm for a handsome cash gift to be presented at the farewell coffee. Lydia Manström letters the inscription. “To Doctor Irina Gyllen, with gratitude from the people of the Örland Islands. Years of labour for the doctor, years of good fortune for the Örlands.” Since Doctor Gyllen was located physically in the west villages, the balance is restored somewhat by organizing the coffee at the school in the east villages, where Lydia heads the entertainment committee. The eastern side will also have the Health Care Centre, in whose creation the doctor was so involved, and so it is right and proper that the party take place nearby. A damned shame, say a hundred voices, that she never got to see it in use.

In memory of the doctor’s arrival one early spring, they sing “Winter’s Rage is Over”.

Most of all, they love the line about “the purple waves of summer”, at which point the whole room joins in, and Petter wonders if he might not be able to express his feelings more adequately by singing his thanks. Fortunately, council chairman Sörling speaks first, and Lydia presents the cash gift. Doctor Gyllen, impassive in her new brown suit, thanks everyone by bowing slightly to right, left, and centre, thinking that the poorer people are, the more generously they give. No Bohemian crystal vase with a silver foot for them, thank heaven. And then the vicar, with a warm smile, and his redcheeked wife by his side.

“My heart is full to overflowing as I attempt to convey the gratitude, loss, and emptiness we all feel,” he begins. “There is probably no home on the Örlands where people have not waited eagerly for the doctor and felt their pain and worry lessen when they heard her footsteps in the hall. It seems to me that my wife and I owe her a greater debt of gratitude than anyone else, but I know several others who feel precisely the same way about themselves and their families. We can’t rank gratitude, no more than we can rank love or sorrow. We can only unite in extending our deeply felt thanks for the years that have passed and for the help we’ve received. We offer our congratulations on your Finnish medical examination and on your new medical post and ask for God’s blessing on your future career.”

The doctor bows and thanks him, and then Bergström is on his feet to thank Doctor Gyllen on behalf of the provincial council for her tireless work for public health, for her unsparing toil and dedication. We shall never forget our doctor, he promises, and many Örlanders have tears on their cheeks.

Then Doctor Gyllen herself must speak before they can all have coffee. She has calculated her dosage carefully. One and a half tablets in the evening gave her a good night, half a tablet that morning keeps her stable. A little distance to what’s going on, a measured emotional delay.

“Esteemed Örlanders,” she begins. She has rehearsed. “It is with regret that I shall now leave the Örlands. You are good people, and I have had a good life among you. But human life consists of movement and change. I leave the Örlands to return to my true mission in life, which is that of physician. Perhaps we shall see one another, for one day I hope to open my own practice in Mariehamn, and then I can serve you there. How happy I will be when some good friend from the Örlands comes through the door. So dear people, I say only ‘Till we meet again.’”

The good Hindrikses weep openly, the mother and the daughters, but the sprightly Marthas start singing “I Love My Native Soil” and then go off to get the coffee. Big-bellied copper pots and modern ones of enamel, all of them full and steaming, the first cup to Doctor Gyllen. The platters they bring in are overflowing with sandwiches, rolls, and cakes. Doctor Gyllen recognizes Mona’s sweet rolls and the Hindrikses’ bread, which she saw them baking the day before. Who baked the cakes is less certain, but the butter has to come from farms with milking cows, and the farmer cheese could be from the parsonage. Adele has probably bought the sausage, maybe the ham as well. A big party, drowned in the rising buzz of conversation. She sits between Sörling and the vicar, both of them remarkably tongue-tied.

“That was tremendous,” Doctor Gyllen begins, to the surprise of both Sörling and the vicar.

“Yes,” the vicar says. “But only the tip of the iceberg. All the things we can’t manage to express are thirty times greater.”

“Fifty times,” Sörling overbids chivalrously. “But you were here while the war was raging, Doctor, and you shared everything with us, and you know we didn’t have a lot.”

Doctor Gyllen smiles. “The war didn’t rage much here. I came to peace when I came to the Örlands. The Finnish army to protect me, and no bombardment. At first I could not believe that people could live this way. Always fish, potatoes, bread. Often butter. Good for people’s health.”

“Yes!” says the vicar enthusiastically. “People think this is a poor place, but the diet is ideal. All thanks to Baltic herring and the other fish. There was much more hunger in the cities.”