Final destination

Some friends have had a chance to see snippets of my new life on Facebook, but I should probably offer a brief summary, now that I have reached my final destination. Well, not the final-final, which will probably be the lovely Forest Cemetery in Stockholm.

Of course you never know. Four years ago I was still confident that Milton, Cambridgeshire, UK, was my final destination (close to crematorium). Then came Brexit and its uncertainties. Then came other things and a series of moves and temporary dwellings. But this time I have hopefully landed.

I now live in a north-western suburb of Stockholm. I don't know this area at all. When we lived in Stockholm, three lives ago, we lived in a southern suburb. It is pure serendipity that I started looking for a place to live in this area, and I love it. It is right on the edge of a large nature reserve, that I have tentatively started to explore. It has several lakes and wetlands, a wide variety of wildlife and a 35km trail that will be my goal for summer. 

At the same time, it takes 15 minutes to city centre by commuter train so I don't feel isolated at all. I have already returned home late after various events, and it wasn't much different from returning to Södermalm.

My local shopping centre has everything I may ever need. There is even a small old-fashioned cinema that is closed at the moment but is supposed to start operating again soon. There is a library and an excellent independent bookstore. There is a second-hand shop where I have already found some household stuff. Within walking distance I have a humongous shopping area with IKEA and other outlets. 

My new place is a condo that in the UK would be classified as one-bedroom and in Swedish is called 2rok, spelled out as 2 rooms and a kitchen. It is exactly what it sounds like: a large bedroom, a large living room and a large kitchen with a large dining area. Plus a large hall, a large bathroom and a large glazed balcony. The rooms face in two directions so there is plenty of light, and the windows are large. (I seem to be abusing the word “large”, but it really reflects my perception of space). There are zillions of built-in wardrobes and even a large – yes, really large! - walk-in wardrobe where I will store all my craft supplies. Otherwise I don't have a lot of furniture, and I got rid of much stuff when I was moving from Cambridge so the rooms are truly in a minimalist style which has always been my dream. In previous lives, we had far too many books filling every available space. I haven't unpacked all my books yet, but I will hardly have more than three or four shelves. As I said: I have a library within three minutes walk.

I am going to have a balcony garden. So far, I only have a potted Christmas tree and a couple of plants I brought from my rented flat. I aim at a tiered, hanging garden with flowers, decorative plants, herbs, strawberries and maybe even some veggies. I have also volunteered to join the garden committee of my cooperative. We have a lovely communal garden that could benefit from some improvements.

I haven't yet succumbed to a television, but I am seriously considering it. I have survived over a year without a television, but I like watching movies, and now that I do have space perhaps it's time to stop watching on computer and get a proper screen.

Most important, in two weeks I will bring home two longed-for friends, Smilla and Smirre. But this is another story.

Memories of other lives

Walking in and around Stockholm brings back memories that I didn't know I had. All the weird things I did in those many years. Today I went on a walk close to Sigtuna, a lovely historical town north of Stockholm. Suddenly I remembered that I used to go to Sigtuna regularly, on weekend retreats invited as a guest and speaker by Sigtuna Foundation. These were small gatherings of about twenty people: writers, artists, musicians, theologians, and if you wonder what I was doing there, I wonder myself, but I know who had brought me there. There were talks and discussions, nice meals, evening performances and a Sunday morning service with communion that you could decline by putting your arm across your chest – you got a blessing instead. During that time I contributed to the cultural journal of the Swedish church. I had completely forgotten about this part of my career.

Jumping from there, I remembered that I used to attend Ingmarsspelen, which is an open-air amateur performance based on Selma Lagerlöf's novel Jerusalem. At that time, Swedish dailies were happy to get contributions from free lancers, and I was asked to do a feature about a Polish scholar who was receiving Ingmar Prize for the best work on Selma Lagerlöf. It was long before computers and even faxes so I dictated my piece over the phone, with someone in the office in Stockholm typing it up. They sent a photographer to take pictures. The prize-winner was asked to give a lecture from a church pulpit. It was my punch line in my article about the Polish scholar. Selma Lagerlöf's novel The Story of Gösta Berling starts: ”Finally the priest stood in the pulpit”. A couple of years later I won the same prize and had to give the lecture. It was the only time in my life I stood in a church pulpit.

Going further along Selma Lagerlöf path, for many years I attended the annual meetings of the Selma Lagerlöf Society. My old professor pushed me toward Lagerlöf scholarship which I gratefully embraced because then as now you needed to demonstrate other merits than children's literature to get a job, and Lagerlöf had been a favourite. I became a Board member of the Society, eventually Master of Ceremonies, which involved arranging annual membership lunches. The Society's by-laws prescribed that every other year the annual meeting should be in Sunne, Lagerlöf's birthplace where she also lived most time of her life; and alternative years some other place in Sweden connected to her works. Attending meetings was always a nice adventure. My professor did not drive, and at that time driving was for me still a pleasure rather than a burden so I was happy to drive us both. Halfway to Sunne there was a coffee shop where we would stop for mid-morning coffee. I guess we had interesting conversations on the way. When I resigned from the Board due to my move to Cambridge, I received a medal for my service. Another exciting part of my professional life that I have sort of forgotten.

More Lagerlöf: for a while I was on the jury of the Lagerlöf Prize, recognising a lifetime achievement of a Swedish author whose work could be defined as written in the, I quote, ”epic spirit of Selma Lagerlöf”. Imagine the debates over the wording! The chair of the jury, who had no vote, but whose duty was to make sure that the jury was in unanimous agreement, literally locked the door of the meeting room so that we could not leave without making a decision. The meeting, usually taking place backstage at the Royal Drama Theatre, was followed by a fancy dinner, a good incentive to finish quickly, but I remember at least one meeting that went on for hours. Other times, we would get together, one of us would propose a candidate, everybody would support, we wrote a motivation and had plenty of time for preprandials. The members of the jury were among the most intellectually stimulating people I have met.

See where a simple walk in the vicinity of Sigtuna has led me!

When I met Olof Palme

Everybody in Sweden today shares their memories of Olof Palme, the Swedish Prime Minister who was assassinated thirty years ago. A bit similar to J F Kennedy: everybody - old enough - remembers what they did. I am old enough. But that's another story.

On the day following the assassination, Staffan and I were going to a city in Sweden where a play he had translated was opening. I was still in bed when Staffan stormed in, screaming: "I am not going to any f*ing opening night!" My reaction was that the author had said something stupid or the theater had misspelled Staffan's name on the poster or something mundane like that. Instead, he threw the morning paper at me, with Palme on the front page.

The opening night was of course postponed, and Staffan and I, together with the rest of Sweden, spent the following days in front of television.

Inescapably, I remembered my only encounter with Palme, which I will share now. A couple of years earlier, there was another opening night (now you will get the impression that we didn't do anything other that attend opening nights, which is very true since Staffan was much involved with theatre in those days). It was a musical which Staffan co-authored and which featured a very famous actress in the main role. It so happened that she had participated in Palme's election campaign, and therefore he was a guest of honour at the performance and the following party.  I happened to sit next to him at the party, and when he realised I was Russian, he looked at me, took a deep breath and started reciting one of the best-known Russian poems by Alexander Pushkin:
         
          Буря мглою небо кроет,
          Вихри снежные крутя...

There he stopped, and I picked up without thinking and finished the whole poem, which ends by a proposal to have a drink, which we did.  

Staffan thought it was hilarious when I told him. Not that the Swedish Prime Minister could recite the first two lines of Russian poem, which he had likely learned as a child from his Russian nanny, but that I could immediately pick up and continue. I didn't find it remarkable at all. Every educated person in Russia can recite poetry for hours.  

Writing First World War for children, part 2

Another reflection I made at the First World War symposium was that my grandchildren presumably don't know anything about it.

Of course, I didn't know much about it when I was a child, once again, because it was totally eclipsed by the 1917 revolution and the subsequent Communist coup that eventually harvested more lives than the Great War on both sides – but our history books didn't tell us about it. Our history books told us that the war was instigated by world imperialism, and it was a blessing for Russia that it finished off the Russian empire and established paradise on earth.

I don't know what my Swedish grandchildren's history books tell them about the Great War. Probably a short paragraph with a blurry black-and-white picture explaining that somewhere, far away, there was a war that Sweden did not participate in. Sweden had its own problems then. It was an impoverished country, and a third of its population had emigrated. That story takes many pages in the history books. I guess it's inevitable, because history is always written from a particular perspective, and what is major for one history writer is a footnote for another. Yet being a displaced hedgehog, I cannot help asking myself: can I do something to make my grandchildren aware of the Great War that did not affect their forefathers? And do I want to? Why would they care? And then I think about red poppies, and the war monuments by the Cambridge railway station and in our little village, and lists of perished soldiers in King's Chapel, and yes, I want my grandchildren to know about it, just as I want British children to know about it. And history books won't help. You need the power of fiction to get the message across. Or rather, get the feeling across.

And this is why I have sent copies of War Horse to my grandchildren and encouraged their parents to take them to see the film. And I will read the books that I learned about at the symposium and see whether I want my grandchildren to read them.

Most of all, I wish somebody would write a book about a Swedish child who by serendipity gets caught in the Great War.