December 1865 – Vettheim, Finnmark, Norway
The frigid winter wind howled ferociously, driving the relentless blizzard hard against the rough wooden walls of the small house. In places, the turf of the roof had been torn away by the savage weather, exposing the birch bark beneath, birch bark which thrashed and rattled wildly. The old deer hide that covered the window billowed inwards, straining against its crude fastenings and provided little in the way of protection to the inhabitants of that small dwelling.
Inside, a young mother sat huddled on the cold dirt floor. Her back resting against one corner of the house’s single room. Her knees hitched up, shivers rippling through her small, thin frame. An old, threadbare blanket was wrapped tightly around her, but it did little to protect her from the bitter draft that found its way in from outside. In her arms was a small infant, held tightly to her breast.
Wood smoke from the small fire burning in the crude fire pit in the middle of the room hung thickly in the air. Its smell, sharp and acrid, coated the throat and stung the eyes. Shadows danced along the walls as the flames flickered. Not only did the fire provide a meagre warmth, but it was also the only source of light in that hovel. The old oil lamp hanging from the wall was dark, the oil had long since run dry and there was no money to purchase more. The family’s small stock of candles was valuable, saved only for those times when they were really needed.
“I know Helga, this isn’t easy for me either, but we’ve spoken about it and there’s no other choice.” a man sat opposite Helga, his blue eyed gaze focused on her intently as he rubbed his hands together over the small fire in a futile attempt to warm himself.
“I can’t do it, Bjorn! We can’t do it! It’s not right! She’s our only daughter!” Helga’s tear reddened eyes met her young husband’s. Another shiver wracked her body as she spoke, her voice small and quivering. Unconsciously her hand tugged at the woollen kerchief she wore on her head.
“What choice do we have, my love? It’s not even midwinter and already we have barely got enough food to feed ourselves. You’ve stopped producing milk, she’s going to starve anyway, that’s if the cold of this winter doesn’t claim her first.” Bjorn spread his arms wide as he pleaded with his wife.
He knew that it was the only way, they would struggle to get through the winter with just the two of them. What hope did they have if there was another mouth to feed? Up and down the valley, families were starving and freezing to death. The summer harvest had been poor and this winter was the coldest that anyone could remember.
“I can’t do it! I won’t let you do it!” Helga’s shoulders quivered as tears overflowed from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. “I can’t lose my beautiful little Kirsten, not yet! Not like this!”
Bjorn’s heart felt heavy as a tear trickled down his own cheek. He looked deeply into his wife’s face, a face that was once so beautiful, vibrant and full of life, but now looked pallid, her eyes sunken into their sockets, her cheeks hollow through hunger and worry. He felt a tremor inside himself as his resolve began to soften. No, he had to be strong, there was no other way. Losing Kirsten would shatter his heart, but losing his wife as well was a thought that he just couldn’t bear.
“I’ll take her to the far bank of the lake. While we suffer and freeze down here, she’ll be in the paradise of Heaven. She’ll play at Jesus’ feet with all the other poor innocent souls that have been lost already this year, those beautiful children of the sky.” a lump formed in Bjorn’s throat as he choked on his own words.
“We haven’t even had the chance to baptise her yet, Bjorn. She’ll never ascend to that sacred place,” Helga’s voice came small and weak, her body shuddering under that old blanket.
“God is merciful, my love. He understands our plight. He’ll take in our precious, innocent girl,” Bjorn steeled himself as he spoke, pushing down the doubts that he himself felt in his own mind.
A sickening, guttural wail tore from the throat of the young mother, her body convulsing, tremoring uncontrollably with every desperate sob that burst forth. Inside of her a battle raged. Deep down she knew that what Bjorn said was the truth. Every day they would pick through what meagre provisions they had left. Every day the hollow gnawing of hunger ravaged her insides. Already her body was beginning to fail her. Her breasts had dried up and without milk she had no way to nourish her baby. Just as her body had failed her, she, as a mother had failed her first born daughter.
Slowly her dark rimmed, bloodshot eyes raised to meet Bjorn’s gaze.
“Is there really nobody that can help us? Is this really the only way?” Helga’s voice was weak and shallow, her eyes drifting down to the baby who still desperately tried to suckle, her tiny mouth opening and closing in a futile effort to find sustenance.
As she gazed on those small, delicate features, Helga allowed her mind to drift. It wandered back to the warm summer months, to that beautiful night when, under the midnight sun, she had given birth to such a precious baby girl. She remembered the bright, smiling face of her husband when he first saw that tiny, fragile human being. Of the tears in his eyes, tears of pure joy.
“Helga?” Bjorn’s soft voice snapped her back to the present. Blinking, lost in the moment she hadn’t seen him approach, hadn’t noticed him crouch beside her. His musky scent filled her nostrils, his eyes were fixed on hers. Wide eyes, eyes in which she could see nothing but love and sorrow.
Bjorn stretched his arms out towards her and with a slow and reluctant movement, Helga peeled her helpless daughter from her body and gently placed Kirsten in her father’s arms.