The Eye of the Reindeer

by Eva Weaver

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Literary Fiction; General Fiction

Synopsis

Shortly after her sixteenth birthday, Ritva is sent away to Seili, an island to the south of Finland. A former leper colony, Seili is now home to 'hopeless cases' - to women the doctors call mad. But Ritva knows she doesn't belong there. As biting winter follows biting winter, she longs to be near to her sister, and wonders why her father ever allowed her to be taken to this desolate place.

Hope arrives in the form of Martta, a headstrong girl who becomes Ritva's only friend. Martta is a Sami, from the north. All through her childhood, Ritva's mother told her wonderful Sami legends and tales - of Vaja the reindeer, the stolen sealskin, of a sacred drum hidden long ago. When Ritva and Martta decide to make their escape, this is where they will head.

So begins an odyssey over frozen sea and land towards a place where healing and forgiveness can grow. This is a story about friendship, about seeing the world through a different perspective, and the stories and tales that can make up a life.

Read by Anna Bentinck

Release date: November 17, 2016

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Sápmi, land of the Sami people, Kilpisjärvi, northern Finland, 1725

This time the men would seize the sacred drum and burn it, Johann could feel it in his bones. He clenched his fists – had the priests not brought their people enough misery? Year after year the churchmen had forced the Sami to abandon their faith, succumb to the bleeding man on the cross and hand over their sacred drums. Many had given in, or at least pretended to, but the disobedient ones were flogged against the courthouse wall, forced to run the gauntlet, or worse, were burnt at the stake together with their drums.

‘Open the door!’ a voice bellowed. Johann flinched as a heavy hand pounded against the door.

‘Stay back, Hilkka,’ he commanded his daughter, ‘don’t say a word, just keep working on the carving.’ Johann opened the door of his turf hut, pipe in hand.

‘Johann Laiti?’ the priest demanded, gripping a wooden cross in front of his chest. He was surrounded by eight grim-faced men. ‘We’ve reason to believe that you are harbouring instruments of the devil in your home. I will ask you one last time to join the Christian faith and hand over those vile objects.’ The fierceness of the pastor’s anger hit Johann like a blow.

‘I harbour nothing but my daughter, Hilkka. As for your faith, I thank you, but I prefer not to belong to any.’

‘Liar,’ one of the men next to the pastor hissed. ‘I heard his drum just a week ago. It’s his grandfather’s. He must still have it.’

The pastor, towering a head above Johann, stepped so close Johann could smell his stale sweat.

‘You’re telling me that this honest man from my congregation is lying? He heard your drum, Johann!’

‘He might have mistaken the beating of his own heart for the devil’s, for all I know.’

‘How dare you speak like this about an honest Christian!’ the pastor spat, lifting the wooden cross. ‘The time of devil worship is over. Give us your drum or we will turn over your hut.’

‘Go ahead and search my humble home. I’ve nothing to hide.’

The men filled the room with their thick presence, sniffing like hungry wolves.

‘And who have we here?’ the pastor sneered, bending over Hilkka’s shoulder.

‘You should come to church, rather than spend your time carving knife handles. This is not girl’s work.’

Hilkka said nothing. The men stumbled around the hut, examining the fireplace, looking under pots, pulling up reindeer furs and the birch branches that covered the ground.

‘That we can’t find the drum doesn’t mean you are telling the truth, but I am willing to let it go for today.’ The pastor’s voice had softened. ‘It’ll be good to see you and Hilkka on Sunday and welcome you into our congregation. I know the grip of the devil is strong and the old gods die slowly, but we can help you.’

Johann looked away and the pastor’s face darkened again.

‘As you wish, Johann, but rest assured: I will be keeping an eye on you and if I hear another word about the drum, I will not let the matter rest. Satan worship must be punished severely.’ He shot Johann a fierce look then gestured to the men.

Johann watched as the group disappeared into the late-summer afternoon until they were no more than dots in the distance … He shivered – never before had he come so close to losing his precious drum. He slipped the small oval out from under his cloak. His heart cramped as he thought of all the sacred drums that had passed from generation to generation, from one noaidi shaman to another, only to be destroyed. Even as a child Johann had known that the drums could open a pathway to other worlds and that they were the source of all sacred knowledge, healing and help. Whenever he had caught a glimpse of his grandfather’s drum, his heart sang; the mesmerising figures – animals, people, tents, reindeer – drawn with deep red alder sap on the reindeer hide seemed to dance whenever his grandfather beat out a rhythm with his carved little hammer. Sometimes a brass ring was bounced on the drum and they marvelled over the path the ring took across the skin and the spot where it fell once the drumming had stopped.

Johann was eight when the men took his grandfather, the noaidi of the siida community. The old man had clutched the drum to his chest, but three of them had pushed him to the ground, one ripping the drum from his hands, another tossing it into the blazing fire where it burst with a loud bang. Grandfather had let out a scream and collapsed into the hostile arms of the churchmen who then dragged him away. With the destruction of his drum, his heart had broken too.

When Grandfather finally returned a week later, he was a changed man: grey-faced and drawn, he walked with a limp, hardly talked and drank alcohol whenever he got hold of any. One day he took Johann aside.

‘I will tell you a secret, my boy. I’ve hidden one last drum from the churchmen. I want you to be its keeper.’ Johann’s heart had pounded as his grandfather entrusted the precious drum to him together with its history, stories and songs. Ever since then, Johann had kept the drum hidden: each time they migrated with the reindeer up the mountains in spring, on the summer pastures and in the lavvu tent during the winters spent in the forest. But now the drum was under threat once again.

‘The drum is not safe here any more, I need to hide it in the mountains,’ Johann said and Hilkka looked up, her eyes large and dark as polished wood.

‘Can I come with you?’

Johann saw the same pain in her eyes as he felt in his soul; he placed his large hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She would be thirteen in a few weeks.

‘Of course you can. We’ll beat the drum one more time up on the mountain and I will teach you the sacred yoik songs.’ He squeezed her shoulder. A smile spread across Hilkka’s face and Johann knew he had decided well – his daughter would carry the knowledge of the drum forward for the generations to come.

Nauvo, southern Finland, summer 1913

The shards of bright June sunlight glistened on the dark waters of the archipelago. Ritva sheltered her eyes as the nurse led her from the carriage down a narrow path towards the shore; after months in hospital, such brilliance hurt and even a short walk left her breathless.

‘Where are they taking me, Alma?’ Ritva said, grabbing the nurse’s hand. The nurse was carrying Ritva’s little red suitcase. She had always been kind and her starched white uniform and assured demeanour exuded a calm that Ritva hoped would help keep her rising terror at bay. The nurse bit her lip, but when Ritva looked again, she was smiling.

‘To Seili, my dear, or Själö as they call it in Swedish. They can look after you better there. Don’t fret, it’ll be all right.’

Ritva’s heart sank. She had heard Father mention Seili once to the doctor, and in the hospital in Helsinki the island’s name had hovered over the patients like a threat. ‘They’ll send you to Seili if you don’t stop blubbering!’ her neighbour had hissed more than once. Seili – once a leper colony, now an asylum for hopeless cases; such had been the rumours. She shuddered. To be sent to Seili, the doctors must have declared her not only mad, but incurable … Ritva clutched the nurse’s arm.

‘It’s for the best, dear.’

What had she done to deserve this? Suddenly Ritva felt very cold and alone; the thought of her little sister left behind in the big house, on her own with Father and the housekeeper, choked her, but bromide had sedated her spirit and she craved the sleep it brought. Yet, as she looked ahead, she could not help but be moved by the still, dark waters of the Baltic, and the play of the sun across its luminous surface. She imagined the water stretching westwards for miles, island after small island, all the way to the Åland Islands, then across the gulf to Sweden. She was only two hours from Turku and their village, and had often come to this place on weekends with Mother and Father and little Fredo. How jealous she had been of her younger brother and the attention her mother had paid him. Now nothing seemed as precious as the memory of those sweet days: her family all together under a high summer sun, Mother smiling, Fredo giggling as he ventured his first steps, Father strolling along the shore holding Ritva’s hand, telling her the names of flowers, skipping stones across the water …

A small boat lay moored at the end of the quay. Ritva noticed the man in charge of it stowing away boxes and sacks of provisions. As he stood up and met her eyes, his face clouded over. Did she look that awful? Maybe he had expected an older woman, not a sixteen-year-old girl? Maybe her hair looked unkempt? She had not seen herself in a mirror for months …

By the time she reached the boat, the boatman had covered his expression with a mask of friendliness. On the quay stood another man wearing a similar uniform to the nurse’s, only less crisp, its former whiteness turned a shabby grey. He was whistling, staring out at the water as he tapped his foot, a shock of bright blond hair showing under his cap. When the nurse arrived with Ritva, he turned, revealing an angular, sunburnt face and watery grey eyes that held no expression. He did not smile. He acknowledged the nurse, stepped forward and took Ritva’s arm, his grip so forceful she gasped. She tried to shake him off, but his hand tightened and he laughed.

‘Who’ve we got here, then? A wild young mare? Ah, we’ll see to that. Hush now, young lady, we’ve got a nice boat ride ahead of us and a fine day for it.’

He nodded at the nurse.

‘Thank you for your help, nurse.’ The attendant’s words were firm and final. The nurse stood rigid, her arms pressed against her skirt.

‘I am very happy to accompany Ritva and help her settle in on Seili.’

‘That is not necessary, thank you. She’ll soon get used to life on our beautiful island.’

‘But Dr Heskin asked …’

‘I said it’s fine, nurse,’ he cut her off. ‘Our doctor will send a report when he has seen her.’

Ritva flinched at the sharpness in his voice. What would he be like once they were alone? Nurse Alma slowly handed the suitcase to the boatman and a thick envelope to the attendant. Then she looked straight at Ritva, trying to smile, but her eyes brimmed with tears and her hand trembled.

‘Goodbye dear, God bless you.’ She moved as if to embrace Ritva, then, remembering the protocol, she turned away. The attendant ushered Ritva towards the boat.

‘A big step now, my lamb,’ he said, directing her onto the small vessel. It swayed as she stepped aboard.

‘You best sit here.’ He pointed to the end of the boat that was bolstered with cushions; it would almost have looked inviting had it not been for everything else. Ritva clambered across boxes and curled-up ropes to the seat. When her eyes found Alma again, the nurse was already walking back towards the carriage. She did not turn around.

The boatman rowed the vessel out onto the glistening water. He had not said a word, and so it would be for the rest of the journey. Maybe he had been told not to talk to her.

Ritva leaned over the side of the boat and let her hand glide though the dark green water. All her senses seemed heightened after being confined for so many months in hospital: the sound of the waves lapping against the boat, the water cooling her wrists, the bright sun caressing her pale skin … How she had missed being outside, feeling the sun, touching the world like this. She watched the boatman row with big, strong movements, each stroke taking them further away from the shore. What would it be like in this new hospital? Would she once again be locked inside all the time? Her stomach clenched at the thought.

The attendant lit a pipe. Ritva tried not to cough as smoke drifted into her face and tickled her throat. She did not want anything to do with this brute. She looked for her suitcase, found its red amongst the boxes of provisions stowed in the bow. A stack of freshly cut timber filled the end of the boat, exuding a strong smell of resin that reminded her of outings with Father, hunting for lingonberries and mushrooms in the late-summer forest. She caught the boatman’s eye and addressed him directly.

‘Are you going to build something on the island with that wood?’

The man’s face paled and he looked away.

‘Leave him alone, that’s none of your business, girl,’ the attendant hissed and threw her a cold look. Then his voice softened.

‘If you’re nice and strong we won’t need that wood for a long time, will we?’ He winked at the boatman who turned away. ‘It all depends on you. Now shut up and enjoy the journey.’

Ritva quivered. What did he mean?

As she sat wondering a loon cut across the sky. The scenery should have been idyllic, but foreboding sat on her chest like an iron weight. If only this were an outing and not a journey taking her further and further away from her home, her freedom …

The boatman set the sails and, pushed on by a gentle breeze, the small vessel cut its way through the archipelago, passing islands and small islets, the granite rocks of the shores sprawling along the water’s edge like the coloured bellies of sea creatures. Ritva gazed out at the horizon – there were hundreds of islands, stretching as far as she could see.

Suddenly a shimmering shape appeared on the edge of her vision; a long, silver-grey body, swimming towards a barren islet, then pushing itself up onto a rock. A grey seal. Mother had often told her the tale of Sealskin: a precious skin stolen from a girl, who, without it, had become lost between sea and land. Would the people in the asylum steal her skin too, her freedom, her life? Would she be forever trapped on this island?

‘Here it is,’ the attendant said and grinned, pointing ahead.

Seili rose out of the water like the back of a giant whale. It looked no different to any of the islands they had passed – soft waves lapped against the grey and pink granite boulders on its shores, washed smooth by time and tide. It seemed impossible that anything could grow here, but a sparse colony of birches and pine trees had taken root further up on elevated ground. Rows of tall golden reeds flanked the small harbour like a golden curtain, contrasting with the brilliant blue water.

Ritva turned and searched for the seal – it was still resting on the islet, a mere dot now. As the boat steered towards the landing, Ritva prayed the lone seal on the barren rock was not some kind of omen for terrible things to come.

The boatman threw the rope ashore and jumped onto the quay, followed by the attendant. He offered Ritva his arm; she hesitated, then took it and stepped off the boat. Standing on the quay she felt herself swaying. A tall man in shabby trousers and a short-sleeved shirt appeared and began to unload the boxes and planks, sweat streaming from his sunburnt face. Ignoring Ritva, he gave the attendant a short nod, then piled the planks onto his shoulders and carried them up a grassy path towards a small workshop.

Ritva searched for her suitcase, the last tangible connection to the world she had left behind. The attendant caught her gaze, pulled the small case out from between a stack of boxes, and handed it to her.

‘Here, my poppet.’ A brief moment of relief flooded Ritva as she gripped the handle, but then the man seized her arm.

‘Let’s go, it isn’t far.’

Ritva looked back at the boatman, but he avoided her gaze. How many women had he ferried to this island, year in, year out? She pinched the skin on her hand between her thumb and finger, a relief she had learned to apply in the long months in hospital. As Ritva peered over the smooth mirror of the Baltic, a large black fish leapt out of the water leaving, just for a moment, a silver arch of glittering pearls in the air. Then it was gone. Ritva’s eyes stayed fixed to the spot where the fish had disappeared. Once she had been this free; now she was trapped.

A sandy path led up across some grassland, studded with early summer flowers. Everything was bursting with green: saplings and buds that soon would explode into fireworks of yellow and blue. Ritva ached to walk on the soft grass – how long since her feet had touched the bare earth, not the cold corridors of a hospital? There were few sounds on the island, the silence only disrupted by the wind’s soft rustle through the trees and the chatter of birds: blackbirds, thrushes, finches and the occasional seagull. She took a deep breath, letting herself be comforted for a moment by nature’s display – maybe there was still hope as long as there were birds, soft grass and sun shining on her face.

Clutching her suitcase, Ritva walked next to the attendant as they made their way up the hill. When she glanced back, the boatman had already set sail for Nauvo. The walk took no more than ten minutes from the small harbour – up a winding path, passing only two landmarks: a rust-red farm building and a grand whitewashed villa surrounded by a large garden.

‘The superintendent lives there,’ the attendant said. ‘It’s the perfect spot for keeping an eye on his charges.’ Ritva imagined the superintendent sitting at his polished desk, looking through a brass spyglass at his asylum like a captain scanning the sea for bad weather.

‘Are you ready?’ the attendant said, smirking at Ritva.

‘For what?’

He pointed further up the path. As Ritva raised her eyes, the asylum came into view. She stopped in her tracks. Elevated on a slight mound, the imposing building sat large and angular with rows of tiny windows that reflected the afternoon light. Maybe it was the ochre-coloured facade or the size that reminded her of a seminary she had once visited in Turku. The building looked alien, as if the architect had intended it to stand alongside grand town houses but instead it had been whisked away by a giant and dropped here, surrounded only by nature. The impressive facade was surely meant to fool new arrivals, but how could the sun shine through those small, barred windows? Ritva shuddered – it would be cold and dark inside …

She gazed back down at the shore – did the island stretch for miles or could one circle it in an hour? A strong impulse to bolt stirred in her, then left her like a tired breath. Trying to flee would be futile: on Seili she would not only be a captive of the hospital, and the superintendent’s ever-vigilant eye, but also of the island itself.

As they neared the building, Ritva noticed a group of women behind a white wooden fence. Wearing long skirts with identical striped aprons, heads covered with straw hats or scarves, they attended to small plots, digging and weeding with hoes, spades and trowels. Ritva could make out dark leafy spinach and runner beans, even some yellow flowers growing in the patches. Some women continued to work, as if in a trance, others stopped and looked up at the new arrival. One woman smiled at Ritva, revealing her few remaining teeth – she could not have been older than thirty – another, short and stocky with milky grey eyes, giggled and waved wildly. Ritva looked away. The thought that soon she would be incarcerated amongst those women made her stomach heave.

‘Come along now, stop gawking,’ the attendant said and ushered her towards the building. Tall white columns flanked the entrance on either side, giving it the appearance of a kind of temple, only less grand. Ritva looked up at a triangular stone relief set above the entrance. Once she stepped across the threshold, life as she knew it would disappear.

One of the women gardening was Martta; she stood taller than the others with long, tanned arms. She had noticed a flash of red from under her straw hat – a small, crimson suitcase and a pale hand, gripping its handle: the new admission, walking next to Petta. Martta sighed – she had witnessed too many such processions, and never once seen a woman being ushered the other way, back to the harbour. The new girl looked as if she had not been outdoors all spring. She was pale with near-colourless lips and there were dark rings under her eyes; only her long, chestnut hair carried some shine. She seemed forlorn, and did not meet Martta’s eyes, walking hunched over as if an invisible weight were pressing on her shoulders. Even without fully seeing her face, Martta sensed that the girl had already left her youth behind. Had her childhood crumpled under the burden of responsibility, or had it slipped from her gently like a scarf in the wind? No, Martta was sure that this girl’s childhood, like her own, had been stripped from her with one violent gesture.

Martta wiped the sweat from her forehead and continued to rake her vegetable patch. It had been two years since she had been sent to Seili. Nearly as young then as the new arrival but already deemed dangerous, she had been sedated and bundled into a coat, arms crossed at the front, a scarf wrapped around her chest as a makeshift restraint. Propped up between Petta and Nurse Katja, she had stumbled up the path from the harbour, kicking at shins and groins to no avail. Martta tried to still the memories that buzzed around her head like a swarm of mosquitoes – there was nothing she could do for the new girl; she would have to find her own way in this place, just as Martta had done.

The attendant took the three steps in one, pulled at the entrance door and held it open for Ritva. She hesitated, then stepped across the threshold.

It was chilly inside and while the warm summer day brought the colours alive outside, in here the whitewashed walls and linoleum floor presented a bleak picture. Where she had expected a cackle of voices and shouting, only deep silence greeted her. The attendant ushered her into a small office. A rotund woman in a white nurse’s uniform sat behind a cluttered desk. She looked up at the new arrival, revealing a pale, plain face with a small nose and tight lips. A mole the size of a small fingernail sat at the bottom of her left cheek. For a split second the woman flinched, her eyes wide as if she had seen a ghost; then her mouth morphed into a thin smile. Ritva noticed an enormous bunch of keys of different sizes attached to her right hip. She forced her gaze away from the keys to look at the woman.

‘Welcome, my dear. You must be Ritva. I am the matron of this humble place. You’ll get plenty of rest here on Seili; it’s not luxurious but it is quiet and we are pretty much self-sufficient. We even catch our own fish, don’t we?’ She laughed, a brief hacking sound, then winked at the attendant.

‘And you have met Petta, our only male attendant and the caretaker here. We have female nurses but sometimes it is handy to have a man around. Of course, on matters of administration our superintendent oversees everything. Has your journey been pleasant?’ She looked from Ritva to Petta and back.

‘She’s been quite a lamb, haven’t you?’ The attendant said before Ritva could answer, pinching her cheek. Ritva shuddered and stepped back – how dare he touch her like that! Petta laughed and handed a thick envelope to the matron.

‘These are most of her doctor’s notes from Turku and Helsinki. More to follow shortly.’

‘Thank you.’ The matron placed the envelope on the desk.

Ritva stared at the brown envelope with its neat handwriting, addressing the letter to the doctor of the ‘Seili Asylum for Women’. What had they written about her, she wondered. The doctors who had examined her in Helsinki had used strange words when talking to each other: ‘dementia praecox, quite possibly,’ one had mumbled, forehead frowning. ‘Oh, I disagree, it surely is melancholia or even mania,’ another judged. Most often ‘hysteria’ was mentioned, a word that seemed to arouse much excitement in the doctors, but one that no one ever explained to her, except to say that something was wrong with her nerves and her womb.

‘Doctor Olafson will have a look at you on his next visit. He comes once a month, but I’m afraid he was just here two days ago. He’s a good man; well, maybe a bit too kind …’

The matron’s grey eyes moved from Ritva’s face down to her dress, her shoes, then back.

‘I hear you’ve been a good girl with only a few outbursts in the hospital? That is very favourable, my dear. I hope it stays that way.’

Ritva remembered the first weeks well, the pleading and crying, the kicking even, but soon enough her fighting spirit had been damped down by the bromide.

‘Now, let’s have a look at your case. You won’t have need of much here, we’ll provide you with everything.’ The matron stretched out her hand to receive Ritva’s suitcase. For a moment Ritva gripped it tightly, then released it.

‘Good girl.’ The matron placed the case on the table and opened the little locks; the lid sprang open with a click.

‘So, what have we got here then?’

Ritva tried to peep over the lid into her case – the cornflower-blue summer dress Mother had made for her; the little mirror with shells, a birthday gift from Elke … would she be allowed to keep them? She remembered the day Mother had surprised her with the dress; Ritva had woken early to find it spread out on her bed as if it had always belonged to her. It would be a bit tight now, but it lifted her spirits just to see it.

‘Ah, you wouldn’t want this,’ the matron said, holding up the dress. ‘There’s no need for fancy clothes here. We see that each person has enough but doesn’t invite the envy of others.’

‘Please, Matron, let me keep it, my mother made it for me.’ Ritva’s voice was shrill. The matron threw her a fierce look.

‘So, you can talk, I see. But I wasn’t asking a question. I’ve told you, you won’t need it.’ She folded the dress and put it to one side. ‘Now this could be helpful,’ she said and fished out a brush and comb, ‘but this,’ she pointed at the little hand mirror, ‘will only distract you.’ She placed the mirror on top of the blue dress. Ritva’s pulse was racing. She wanted to scream at the matron, grab her things and run, but instead she stood rigid, clenching her teeth, sweat gathering in her armpits.

‘And this, my dear, is surely most detrimental to your sensitive nerves and your overstretched imagination.’ The matron pulled out the thick volume of Andersen tales, and held it out in front of her as if it were a poisonous snake. Seeing the anguish on Ritva’s face, her voice softened.

‘Don’t worry, dear, we’ll keep the book for you. And you never know, there might come a time when you’re allowed to read it again.’

Why could she not at least keep her treasured book? Mother had read her all the tales when she was young and, when Mother got ill, Ritva had spent many nights poring over the book with its beautiful pictures or reading it aloud to Elke. Ritva held on to the table with both hands as dizziness overcame her. She did not want to faint or weep in front of this woman, but she could feel the panic rising in her.

And then she heard it: a muffled scream as if from far away, yet she was sure it had come from within the building, or maybe another part of the building.

‘What was that?’ The question tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it.

‘What, my dear? I didn’t hear anything.’ The matron turned to Petta. ‘Did you?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘But I heard it … like someone was …’

‘Someone was what? Don’t fret, dear, let me show you to your room. Your nerves are clearly still on edge.’ The matron started to move out from behind the desk.

‘But I’m sure I heard something.’

‘It’s just the wind, dear, it makes queer noises sometimes. Now hurry along, we don’t have all day.’ She handed Ritva the brush and comb and gestured for her to follow. Ritva didn’t dare refuse – her instincts told her that the matron’s friendly attitude could turn in seconds to wrath. As she walked down the corridor behind the matron, Ritva noticed heavy wooden doors standing open on both sides, like cells in a prison. She had an eerie sense that the walls were not solid but malleable and could move in on her at any moment. She had arrived on an island of stranded souls and the trap was about to shut.

She clutched her brush and comb as they entered a large day-room filled with murmuring like a beehive. About thirty women sat bent over looms, some at wooden tables, while others stitched and mended pieces from a mountain of tatty garments. Just as they had earlier in the garden, some women looked up and grinned or stared at Ritva, while others ignored her, gripping their needlework and humming to themselves. Despite the bright day outside, the windows were closed and the air reeked of old sweat and musty clothes. Ritva found it hard to breathe. Amongst the women sat two nurses, rotund as the matron, dressed in tidy white uniforms. Ritva noticed how thin and pale most of the women looked compared to these red-cheeked nurses who were chatting between themselves.

‘We’ll give you an apron like the other women, but otherwise everyone sees to their own clothing,’ the matron said. ‘We often get parcels from the congregation in Nauvo or even Turku. Now come along this way.’

The thought of wearing other people’s clothes, maybe even from her old church community, filled Ritva with dread; what if she came across a neighbour’s dress, a school friend’s blouse … The matron held a door open that led into another long corridor, then approached one of the rooms on the left side with a crooked number 29 written on the heavy door. She pulled out her bunch of keys.