the Germans do come, the islanders know they will have to fend for themselves, because help has never come in time from the mainland when enemy forces have landed on Oland in centuries gone by. Never.
People say the army intends to put parts of northern Oland underwater in order to prevent an invasion of the island, which would be a bitter irony now that the serious spring floods out on the alvar have finally begun to evaporate in the sun.
When the sound of a distant engine was heard across the water earlier that morning, the unloading of the stones stopped, and everyone gazed anxiously at the overcast skies. Everyone except Nils, who wonders what a real bombardment by a plane looks like. Are there whistling bombs that turn into balls of fire and smoke and tears and screams and chaos?
But no plane appeared over the island, and the work resumed.
Nils
hates rowing. Hauling stones might not be much better,
but the tedious process of rowing gives him a headache right from the start. He can’t think when he has to steer the heavily laden boat with his oar, and he’s being watched the whole time. LassJan follows the progress of the boats with his peaked cap pulled right down to his eyebrows, directing the work with his voice.
“Let’s have some effort, Kant!” he roars across the water once the last stone has been loaded at the jetty.
“Slow down, Kant, look out for the jetty!” he yells as soon as Nils pulls on the oar too hard once the boat has been unloaded and is easy to row back.
“Get a move on, Kant!” Lass Jan shouts.
Nils glares at him all the way out to the cargo ship. Nils owns the quarry. Or to be more accurate, his mother and uncle own it, but even so LassJan has treated him like a slave right from the start.
“Load up!” yells LassJan.
In the morning people chatted and laughed with each other
when they began unloading, there was almost a party atmosphere, but the stone has mercilessly subdued them with its silent weight and its hard edges. Now people are carrying it doggedly, with their backs bent, their footsteps dragging, and their clothes powdered with white limestone dust.
Nils has nothing against the silence; he never speaks to anyone anyway unless he has to. But from time to time he looks over at Maja Nyman on the jetty.
“She’s full!” shouts LassJan when the blocks of stone are piled a yard high in the boat Nils is sitting in, and the seawater is almost lapping at the gunwale.
Two loaders climb down and sit on the piles of stone, looking down on a little nineyearold boy who’s there to bail out. The boy sneaks a terrified glance at Nils before he picks up his wooden pail and begins to scoop the water from the bottom of the boat, which is not watertight.
Nils pushes hard with his feet and heaves on the oar. The boat glides slowly off toward the cargo ship, where the other rowboat has just been emptied.
Back and forth with the oar, back and forth without a break.
Nils’s hands ache, and the muscles in his arms and back are screaming in pain. He longs to hear the roar of German bombers right now.
The boat finally hits the hull of the ship with a dull thud. Both loaders move quickly to the stern, bend down, take hold, and begin lifting the stone blocks over Wind gunwale.
“Let’s put our backs into it!” yells LassJan from the deck, standing there in his stained shirt with his fat belly sticking out.
The stones are lifted over the gunwale and carried over to
the open hatch, then they slide down into the hold along a broad plank.
Nils is supposed to help with the unloading. He lifts a few slabs up to the ship, then hesitates just a fraction too long with a thick block on the edge, and drops it back into the boat. It lands on the toes of his left foot, and it bloody hurts.
In a fit of blind rage he picks the block up again and heaves it over the gunwale without even looking where it lands.
“Bugger this!” he mutters to the sea and the sky, sitting down at his
People say the army intends to put parts of northern Oland underwater in order to prevent an invasion of the island, which would be a bitter irony now that the serious spring floods out on the alvar have finally begun to evaporate in the sun.
When the sound of a distant engine was heard across the water earlier that morning, the unloading of the stones stopped, and everyone gazed anxiously at the overcast skies. Everyone except Nils, who wonders what a real bombardment by a plane looks like. Are there whistling bombs that turn into balls of fire and smoke and tears and screams and chaos?
But no plane appeared over the island, and the work resumed.
Nils
hates rowing. Hauling stones might not be much better,
but the tedious process of rowing gives him a headache right from the start. He can’t think when he has to steer the heavily laden boat with his oar, and he’s being watched the whole time. LassJan follows the progress of the boats with his peaked cap pulled right down to his eyebrows, directing the work with his voice.
“Let’s have some effort, Kant!” he roars across the water once the last stone has been loaded at the jetty.
“Slow down, Kant, look out for the jetty!” he yells as soon as Nils pulls on the oar too hard once the boat has been unloaded and is easy to row back.
“Get a move on, Kant!” Lass Jan shouts.
Nils glares at him all the way out to the cargo ship. Nils owns the quarry. Or to be more accurate, his mother and uncle own it, but even so LassJan has treated him like a slave right from the start.
“Load up!” yells LassJan.
In the morning people chatted and laughed with each other
when they began unloading, there was almost a party atmosphere, but the stone has mercilessly subdued them with its silent weight and its hard edges. Now people are carrying it doggedly, with their backs bent, their footsteps dragging, and their clothes powdered with white limestone dust.
Nils has nothing against the silence; he never speaks to anyone anyway unless he has to. But from time to time he looks over at Maja Nyman on the jetty.
“She’s full!” shouts LassJan when the blocks of stone are piled a yard high in the boat Nils is sitting in, and the seawater is almost lapping at the gunwale.
Two loaders climb down and sit on the piles of stone, looking down on a little nineyearold boy who’s there to bail out. The boy sneaks a terrified glance at Nils before he picks up his wooden pail and begins to scoop the water from the bottom of the boat, which is not watertight.
Nils pushes hard with his feet and heaves on the oar. The boat glides slowly off toward the cargo ship, where the other rowboat has just been emptied.
Back and forth with the oar, back and forth without a break.
Nils’s hands ache, and the muscles in his arms and back are screaming in pain. He longs to hear the roar of German bombers right now.
The boat finally hits the hull of the ship with a dull thud. Both loaders move quickly to the stern, bend down, take hold, and begin lifting the stone blocks over Wind gunwale.
“Let’s put our backs into it!” yells LassJan from the deck, standing there in his stained shirt with his fat belly sticking out.
The stones are lifted over the gunwale and carried over to
the open hatch, then they slide down into the hold along a broad plank.
Nils is supposed to help with the unloading. He lifts a few slabs up to the ship, then hesitates just a fraction too long with a thick block on the edge, and drops it back into the boat. It lands on the toes of his left foot, and it bloody hurts.
In a fit of blind rage he picks the block up again and heaves it over the gunwale without even looking where it lands.
“Bugger this!” he mutters to the sea and the sky, sitting down at his
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