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Dawn in a Swedish village

He was dying. He was in pain, too.

The old man knew he was dying, but he stood there in his blue dressing gown, welcoming them. He embraced them with one hand, the other he kept deep in the pocket of his robe to hold up his stomach.

It was Christmas Eve and the wind brought snow swirling through the front door. There were ten children, five boys, five girls, all grown up. To the girls he said, “Welcome home, my darling. What a treat to have you here!”
To the boys, “Ah, my boy, Wonderful, Wonderful!” together with a bone cracking handshake.

Like arctic terns they had all decided to spend Christmas at home that year. He thought: fancy! The whole lot! What a marvellous coincidence!
Their young cheeks were cold and refreshing against his. From the most distant parts of Europe, America and Australia they had come. “You look well, Papa!”

Erik, the eldest, and Ilsa, the youngest, had arrived before the others: they lived nearby, in Stockholm. The father only had to descend the stairs eight times that day.

In fact, Erik had been there a week; worrying, like a sad spaniel. In some primitive civilisations they beat a drum through the night. But Erik was a modern Swedish businessman, so he had used the telephone; an urgent few days chain-smoking over a mouthpiece.

Incredibly they had all come. He stood there beside his father and whooped at them as each walked up the garden path. “Hey, Jorgen! Hey, Gustav!” Some had families, some were poor, none were missing. Erik was a huge man. Gratefully he went charging down the path through the snow to grab luggage from the taxis and swap roars of delight with his sisters and brothers.

The old man wobbled around the house, fixing decorations. To catch the right spirit he played records of traditional songs and carols. “How did the exams go, Helga? Here, help me with the candles for the tree.”

This was the first time in ten years that the family had been together; he was so pleased he hardly knew which of his hands was the left and which the right.
“No sugar in mine, thank you. I’ll have it white. No, black perhaps, it seems to be the fashion.” His movements were clumsy because of the pain and because his eyes were not good any more. But he made a joke of it all: “I must say they don’t make these coloured things as strong as they used to.”

Later, when they had all arrived, he went upstairs and changed into his smartest suit. “Hurry, Father. There are lots of presents waiting to be opened!”

It was time for the annual ritual. Tissue paper, surprise, cries of delight. Downstairs again, he began to cough. He sat down and beckoned to his youngest daughter. “Ilsa, my dear, open my presents for me. Your young fingers are more nimble than mine.” He kept pressing on his stomach, and by holding his breath managed to stop the coughing. The Christmas tree was a pink triangle in the haze. “A waistcoat! Ah, Stefan, my boy, thank you! Lovely colour. What excellent taste you have.”

“Look at my new slip, Father! Isn’t it daring?” He managed to look in the right direction. “Sensational, my dear! It’s a good job you’re married.”

Eventually the last present was opened and the mountain of wrapping paper was pushed to one side. “Its time to eat,” he cried, above the hubbub. “Time to drink. Bring in the pork. Bring in the wine!”

“Its all ready, Papa.” Ingrid hesitated. “Shall I ask Erik to carve?”

“No, of course not. I’ll carve. I’ve always carved. No-one carves like me.” Which was true. The children sat around in embarrassed silence as the once-expert knife slithered over the meat and got stuck in the crackling. Bits of torn pork sprayed over the table-cloth and got cold. The old man sweated and wished he could put his hands to his belly.

Ingrid said, “That’s a dreadfully blunt knife, Papa. Here, you be pouring the wine whilst I sharpen the knife in the kitchen.” She took the meat with her and quickly cut two dozen slices. Soon they were eating.

There were many delicacies. After the pork, they all helped themselves to whatever they fancied, in traditional buffet style and washed it down with wine and lager. The old man talked and laughed, sang and joked. He continually piled food on the plates of the others, topped up their glasses and urged them to make merry.

“Come, Birgid, you have the best voice. Silent Night. With me. Ready? One, two, Silent Ni-…”
“Oh, Papa, you will wear us out” Birgid said, pretending she was exhausted. Then, laughing, she joined in the duet. “Silent Night…”

The others came in, one by one, making a full-blooded chorus, with descant and with piano accompaniment by Anna, a music teacher. From time to time they flicked little uneasy glances at their father. But he continued to conduct them with his fine hands and they sang with spirit and feeling, until they wondered if any of them could last the night out. “Louder, Gustav, let’s hear that bass!” The old man hung on to the mantelpiece, tried to make it look casual. Somehow he still managed to look dignified, with his proud shoulders and thick white hair. “Not bad, but you need practice. Your voices are soft. Again! We will do it again. Oh, Little Town of Beth….”

The pain was a little less now, because of the drink. So was the strength. But the spirit kept on; it would not give in. “Some more lager here, Ingrid!”

When endless carols had come and gone, Jorgen whispered in Erik’s ear, “Look at him, he’s incredible.”

“Yes, its as though nothing was wrong. He’s just like he was in the old days.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“He should be in bed, with drugs.”

It was midnight. All the candles in the tree had been lit and everyone joined hands in a circle around it to sing the traditional thanksgiving. Afterwards the dancing began, and corks popped once more. The faces were pink and the sweat glistened.
“Helga, darling. My plate is empty. Let me try some more of that splendid pate.”

Jorgen, dancing with his sister, stared blearily through the haze. “He intends to be the last man standing, as usual.” Ingrid turned to look. “It means everything to him,” she said, “to be here with us and for us, to enjoy being our father.”
The old man disappeared from time to time, when he thought no one was looking, to the bathroom to vomit up all he had consumed.
The children knew and looked to Erik. But he shook his head. He said, “It would be too cruel to stop him.” He put on another record and thought: his happiness is too rare; we must not spoil it.

The old man returned and, as though by a signal, the flagging laughter burst forth again. He went to his place in front of the fire, put his back to it and stood with his hands deep in his pockets. As he watched them in their paper hats, dancing and throwing streamers, the lines deepened around his mouth. He thought: God was kind to give me such handsome sons, such lovely daughters. Praise to his Son for giving us Christmas, so they can be here.

He lit a cigar and blew a smoke ring at Ilsa, his youngest. She put a paper hat on his head and kissed his cheek. “May I?” he said, and gently they began to dance.

The party continued well into the early hours of Christmas morning, on and on until the noise gradually faded away. Slowly, very slowly, the dawn began to glimmer through the curtains. A faint rim of light appeared under the pelmet. A pile of records lay at the bottom of a motionless spindle. The embers of a log winked from the grate. The father had gone. He was still there with them, but he had gone.

The children were silent now. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to say. The eyelashes of each, even the boys, were moist. Debris lay about all over the floor: tinsel, broken nutshells, candle grease, trampled ribbons, even shards of glass, the relics of a boisterous toast from the old man. They stood around motionless with their sad thoughts and looked down at the mess, avoiding each other’s eyes. Silent Night kept going through Ilsa’s head. Gustav leaned his elbows on top of the piano and choked back a sob. Jorgen held Ingrid in his arms and whispered, “Don’t cry, darling. It was a happy ending.” Nobody stood in front of the fireplace.

Abruptly Erik went across to the curtain on the east window and drew it back. The thin pink light of early morning came shyly, like a ballet dancer, into the room. It mingled with the pitiful glow of the candles on the tree, and rested on their faces.

Erik strode back to the middle of the room. He said, “A final toast!”
They stared at him for a moment, until Gustav rose and quickly filled ten glasses to the brim. He handed one to each. Then, silent obeying Erik’s outstretched finger, he filled an eleventh glass and placed it on a low coffee table next to the sofa.

At a signal from the eldest they raised up their glasses. Tears were running down his face. He said, “God speed!” As one, they tilted back their heads, offered their prayer and drained their glasses to the dregs. When they had finished, Erik looked down. His eyes went to the coffee table, to the last measure of wine in the house.

He bent, lifted the glass, looked slowly around at the others, and said, “To you, my children, this Christmas!” And he tilted the glass high for a full minute until every last drop had gone. Then he pulled back his shoulders and turned, with an air of defiance, to the window and the eastern light. He looked at it for a few moments, toying with the glass in his hand. Then he drew back his arm and hurled it straight through the window.

The cold, silent air crept into the room.