ME AND FATHER

By: Pär Lagerkvist (Nobel Prize Winner for Literature 1951)
Translated from Swedish: Qerim Raqi

When I was about ten years old, I remember, my father took me by the hand one Sunday afternoon and we went out into the forest to listen to the birds sing. We said goodbye to mother, who had to stay home to cook dinner, so she didn't join us. The sun was shining warmly and we were well on our way. We did not take this so solemnly with the song of the birds, as if it were something particularly pleasant or strange, we were reasonable people, both father and I, educated and used to nature. This was no big deal to us. It was only because it was Sunday afternoon and Dad was free. We were walking on the railway line, where no one else was allowed to go, but father was used to the road by the railway and owned it. In this way we also entered the forest. We didn't have to make any turns. Soon the birdsong and everything else began; chirping in the bushes of seals and songbirds, sparrows and thrushes, all their noise surrounding you as soon as you enter the forest. The ground was thick with hydrangeas, the birches had now bought and the firs had put forth fresh shoots. It smelled from all sides and corners. On the lower side lay the bottom of the forest steaming from the sun above. Wherever there was life and noise, wasps flew from their holes, gnats swarmed from the sky, and from the bushes birds darted to catch them and quickly dived again. Suddenly a train came roaring by and we got down on the embankment. The father greeted the locomotive driver with two fingers raised on his hat, the locomotive driver also greeted the father with his hand. It all happened quickly. We then made our way to the tracks that were sweating their tar in the sun. It smelled of everything, wagon oil and almond blossoms and tar and heather and everything else. We took great strides on the rail and not on the gravel, which was rough to walk on and would tear our shoes. The rails glistened in the sun. On either side of the line were telephone poles that sang as we passed them. Yes, it was a beautiful day. The sky was quite clear, not a cloud in sight, nor could there be any on this day, according to what the father said. After a few moments we came to an oat field to the right of the line, where a farmer we knew had a plow. The oats were dense and the ears had grown evenly. The father waved them away and seemed pleased.

I just didn't understand a lot of this because I was born in the city. So we came to the bridge over a stream where usually there is not much water, but now the flow was full. We held each other's hand so we wouldn't fall between the tracks. Then it wasn't long before we reached the guard lodge, which is completely covered with greenery, apple trees and bushes. We went there and visited. They rented us milk. We saw their pigs, chickens and trees in bloom, then continued on our way.

We wanted to go to the big stream, because it was more beautiful than anywhere else, it had something special, because it passed my father's childhood home up there in the village. We didn't feel like turning back until we got this far. Even today we arrived here after a good walk. It was close to the next station, but we didn't go all the way there. Dad just wanted to make sure the traffic light was fine. He thought of everything. We stopped by the stream. The stream hummed amicably with the sunlight. Lush deciduous forest hung along the banks and was reflected in the levee water. Everything was bright and fresh here. There was a slight breeze from the small lakes above. We went down the slope and walked a little along the coast.

The father pointed out the places where he had stayed before. Here he was sitting like a pike, on the rocks, waiting with a perch all day. Often no living thing had come, but it had been a blessed reality. Now he had no time. So we'd go whizzing around for a good while along the shoreline, scooping up pieces of conifer bark that the current carried with it, and throwing pebbles into the water to see who shot the furthest. By nature, both father and I, we were happy and cheerful. Finally, we got tired and thought we had been there long enough and headed home. Then it started to get dark. The forest had changed. It was not yet dark, but we hurried. Mother must have been worried while waiting for us to eat. She was always afraid that something would happen. But it was a wonderful day for us. Nothing happened to us. We were pleased with everything.

It was getting darker. The trees were very strange. They stood and obeyed every step we took, as if they didn't know who we were. A tree there had a firefly inside the trunk. It stood staring down at us in the darkness. I shook my father's hand, but he didn't see the strange glow, just kept walking. Meanwhile, we reached the bridge over the stream. The sound of the stream could be heard from deep there. Scary, as if it wanted to devour us, as if an abyss would open beneath us. We carefully stepped on the crossbars, holding each other's hand tightly so we wouldn't fall. I thought dad was going to carry me on his back, but he didn't say anything, maybe he wanted me to be like him and not think there was any danger. We continued. Father crossed the bridge so calmly, with sure steps, in the dark, steady, without speaking, thinking to himself. I couldn't understand how he could be so calm when it was so dark. I looked around scared. Only darkness reigned everywhere. I hardly dared to take a deep breath, because then I could bring the darkness inside me, and that was dangerous. I thought I was going to die soon. I remember well that I believed this at the time.

The embankment went down steeply, as in the black abyss of night. Telephone poles rose ghostly into the sky, rumbled softly within them, as if someone were speaking deep in the earth. The white porcelain pleats stood horribly crouched and obeyed it. Everything was terrible. Nothing was real. Everything was like a miracle. I approached my father and whispered:

– Dad, why is it so scary in the dark?

- No, my dear son, the darkness is not terrible, he said and shook my hand.

- Yes, father, it is.

– No son, it's not good to think like that. We know God exists. I felt so alone, abandoned. It was very strange that only I was afraid, not the father. We didn't think alike. And the strange thing was that what my father said didn't help me, so I didn't have to be afraid anymore. What he said about God didn't help me either. I think it was terrible too. It was awful that he was everywhere in the dark, under the train, on the rumbling telephone poles – surely it was him – everywhere. You could never see it though. We walked in silence. Everyone thought for himself. My heart shrank as if darkness had entered it and begun to embrace it. Then, when we were on a bend, we suddenly heard a loud thunder behind us! We were surprised by our thoughts. Dad pulled me down the embankment, down into the abyss, held me there. Then the train passed. A black train passed at breakneck speed. What was this train? There wasn't supposed to be a train now. We looked at each other scared. The fire broke out in the large locomotive shoveling coal. Sparks roared wildly through the night. It was terrible. The driver stood there pale, motionless, his features as if frozen, illuminated by the fire. The father did not know who it was, he only looked ahead, as if he was going into the darkness, which had no end. Pursued, panting with anxiety, I stood surveying the wild scene. The image was swallowed up by the night. My father took me to the track, we hurried home. He told me: - Strange what kind of train it was! I didn't recognize the driver.

Then he walked in silence. I was shaking all over. All this was done for me, for my desire. I guessed what he meant. It was the anxiety that was to come, the whole unknown, the one that my father knew nothing about, from which he would not be able to protect me. This is how this world would be for me, this life, not like my father's, where everything was safe and familiar. It was not a real world, a real life. It only seeped burningly into the darkness that had no end. /Magazine "Academia"/Telegraph/