Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

Part 1 – Flaate

Chapter 1

Gudbrands Valley, Norway, 1797

The labor was not an easy one. The midwives grumbled to each other. “Such a woman,” said Kjersti. “Forty-seven years old, and giving birth!”

“Her third one in six years,” added Berit, “it’s a scandal!”

“Well, this will be her last, you can be sure of that.”

And it needn’t have happened. There were ways to end such madness early, as the midwives knew well; they had learned the ways from none other than Mari Nelsdatter, now in the birthing bed herself, in inconsolable misery.

The gossiping was only a ploy; an awkward attempt by the two women to blunt the tragedy they felt looming. When they realized what they were saying, they both blushed and fell silent. If truth be told, they felt a deep admiration for Mari. Her skill as a midwife was fabled throughout Froen parish and beyond. Landed gentlewomen from Ringebu to Vaaga would send for Mari Nelsdatter at the first sign of any irregularity in their pregnancy. Even better known was her compassion and generosity toward the peasant women she loved to serve. By her intervention, babies and mothers beyond counting had been saved from the fatal rigors of childbirth.

Berit in particular was fond of Mari, and grateful for her kindness. Long ago, Mari had taken the thirteen-year-old orphan into her home, teaching her the art of the midwife as if she were her own daughter. By now, Berit was a skillful midwife in her own right. Kjersti was older and more experienced than Berit, and had worked beside Mari on many occasions, marveling at her mastery and insight.

Where were the gentlewomen now, they thought, in Mari’s hour of greatest need? No matter. Even if Sonja Hundorp herself would send her fastest sleigh-team to fetch the doctor from Tretten, he could not arrive in time. All was lost.

= = =

During her long marriage to Thor Iversen, Mari had remained childless. That is, without surviving children. She suffered three miscarriages and one stillborn during those twenty-odd years. The miscarriages she never mentioned to anyone. The stillborn was known to the parish, of course, and became a source of country gossip, such as, “The poor woman can help other mothers, but can’t bear a live child of her own,” etc.

After old Thor died, Mari married Poul Poulsen, a man much younger than herself. Poul was a teamster at the Hundorp farm, one of the richest in the valley. There were no horses in all of Scandinavia finer than Ivar Hundorp’s Gudbrandsdalers.

Hundorp disapproved of his household servants taking families, especially his teamsters. But owing to Mari’s well-known value as a midwife, the master agreed to rent Poul a small plot where he could build a hut, grow potatoes, and raise his family, all on his time off between journeys with the great teams.

No sooner was the first crop of potatoes planted, than Mari became pregnant. Although forty years old, she carried the baby to term, and bore her first son, named, according to custom, Poul Poulsen.

Two years later, Nels was born; four years after that, at age 46, Mari was pregnant with her third child. Such fecundity at such an age was unheard of in Gudbrandsdal. But that year, the family’s potato vines withered in midsummer, and the harvest was reduced by nine-tenths. The blight struck haphazardly; one peasant may have salvaged half of his crop or more, while his neighbor was left with not a single potato.

The huusmen* of Hundorp were a close-knit lot, and shared their meager stores between families as they would within their own, so no one starved to death that winter. But the master was unkind. Furious with the reduction in rent from his share-cropping peasants, Ivar Hundorp dreamed up new projects to recoup his losses.

So it was that in November, Poul Poulsen found himself driving a heavy load of logs down from the forest in foul weather. The men at the logging camp warned him that the snow was not stable, and the road would be treacherous. Poul scoffed at their concerns; after all, he had surveyed the route carefully on the way up only the day before, and had personally supervised the loading of the sledge. “I’ll be back next Tuesday,” he said, “with a pound of real African coffee for you.”

The men guffawed derisively as they toasted Poul with their mugs of roasted chicory beverage, which served as a miserable substitute for the treasured but rarely tasted tropical bean. But under the surface, each man hoped that it would come to pass, and if anyone could pull off such an impossible feat, it must be Poul Poulsen.

For his part, Poul, under the surface, was less cock-sure of this drive than his bravado might suggest. Over and over in his mind, he rehearsed each trouble spot: The narrow cuts with sheer cliffs below, downhill runs where the sledge could reach twenty or thirty miles an hour, with no possibility of stopping before the route reached bottom, and they slowed on the uphill side. Switchbacks that required every ounce of his teamster’s skill to maneuver the horses and sledge into the reverse direction. But one thing was certain: this was no time to incur the wrath of Ivar Hundorp by getting snowbound in the forest with four of his best horses.

As Poul made his way down the mountain, the snow fell harder and the wind grew stronger. On the uphill slopes, the horses struggled and snorted, pawing fiercely until their hooves finally gained traction. On the worst of the downhill portions, they stumbled and whinnied wildly, scrambling to keep from being run over.

Halfway down the first and highest canyon wall, where the road was narrowest, Poul heard a noise above him and looked up. Before a thought could be formed, horses, driver, and sledge were swept to the canyon floor beneath a hundred feet of snow, rocks, and uprooted trees.

= = =
*huusman: the lowest class of tenant farmer. While they had more legal rights than the serfs in feudal societies, the livelihoods of the huusmen were in some ways even more precarious. In this story, I use the term “peasant” as a synonym.
= = =

Mari opened her eyes. A rolling curtain of pain stood between her and her surroundings, blurring and distorting all sight and sound. She sensed she was with two women. She could see them moving, but their faces were indistinct, and their voices sounded very far away. Then her eye fell on something important, something she must tell the women. “Uhh … Ohhh” she moaned.

“Ja, ja, dear Mari,” said Berit, “what is it?

Mari struggled, “Ya .. ya …” but her pain was a barrier through which words were loathe to travel.

Thinking Mari had said simply, ‘yes,’ Berit replied, “Ja? To what, dear? Has the baby moved?”

Mari shook her head, which caused the room to go spinning around before her. She gestured clumsily toward the hearth and with great effort said “Plant!”

The women sighed and looked above the hearth, where a small bundle of stems, remnants of some herb they did not recognize, hung forlornly on a string.

“You mean this?” said Berit, taking down the bundle. But Mari had drifted again into a tortured unconsciousness.

The two midwives sat down at the table, studied the twigs, then looked at each other. “Do you know what this is?” asked Berit.

Kjersti frowned, “It’s too dried up to tell. And there’s hardly a leaf left on it. Aren’t the leaves the most important part?”

Mari moaned again, “Blood!”

Both midwives rushed to the bedside and pulled down the covers. There was only the slow oozing of dark blood that was now in its second day. Nor was there any change in the hard, hot, white surface of Mari’s belly. Berit looked into Mari’s eyes and said, “Dear Mari, what do you mean, blood?” But Mari’s eyes were glazed and she gave no response. The women sighed again, and went back to the table.

“Well,” said Berit, “let’s at least steep this so it will be ready for … something.” Absent-mindedly, she put the twigs in a pot, and poured hot water from the teakettle over them. Almost immediately, a calm settled over the tiny hut, and the two women found themselves dozing off, still sitting on the bench, for the first time in many hours.

= = =

A short time later (A minute? An hour? Neither woman could say), they were startled awake by a terrifying crash. Echoes ricocheted up and down the fjord like cannon fire. The women, wide-eyed, looked first at each other, then at Mari, who only moaned softly. Then the two began to chuckle. It was March, and the river-ice was beginning to fail. Cracks a half-mile long and four feet wide would suddenly open with a tremendous racket. Such commotions would be heard from time to time for the next few weeks, until the ice finally emigrated downstream in great floes.

Berit looked into the pot at the soaking twigs. They were thoroughly steeped and lay limp at the bottom. But what was it, and when, and how were they to use it?

Suddenly, Mari felt as if she were being crushed by an enormous weight. She shrieked in a high voice. The women sprang to their feet and were at her side in an instant. They knew that within the next few minutes, all would be over. Mari shrieked again, and on sheer instinct, pushed with all her might.

The water, the baby, and the blood came in rapid disorder. “There’s the baby,” cried Kjersti, when all she could really see was a patch of bloody scalp the size of a hen’s egg. The midwife reached with the fingers of both hands, carefully, firmly, until she had a tentative grip on the baby’s head. “I have it,” she said. “Push, Mari!” And Mari, to their astonishment, pushed harder yet, until finally the baby, all of it, was in Kjersti’s hands. “It’s a girl, said Kjersti, “and she’s alive!”

Then the blood came in earnest. It flowed from Mari in a torrent. As Kjersti worked quickly to clear the baby’s mouth and start her breathing, Berit took in a deep breath and remembered birthings past. She knew that Mari could not survive such bleeding for even a minute. But among all the midwives of the parish, only Mari had successfully staunched the flow and saved a mother’s life. Moreover, she had done this not once, but several times. Some of the parishioners thought she was a saint, performing miracles, others, a witch practicing sorcery.

“Mari, how, how?” cried Berit. But Mari only panted irregularly, weakly.

“She told me how,” said Kjersti.

Berit was shocked. “Then do it, and quickly,” she said. “I’ll mind the baby.”

“I can’t.”

Berit saw that Kjersti’s hands were trembling so violently that she had set the baby on the table to avoid dropping her. “For God’s sake, then tell me how!”

“Reach inside until you can feel her heartbeat in the blood,” said Kjersti.

Berit reached. “I can’t feel it.”

“Reach farther.”

Berit reached farther, and suddenly on her fingertips she felt a weak pulsation in the flow.

“I feel it!”

“Find where the pulse is strongest, go in just a bit farther and press from behind.”

Berit did so. She felt the flow diminish, but it did not stop. “It’s not stopping.” A feeling of utter helplessness came over her, until her eyes fell on the pot. “The plant!” she shouted. “A poultice!”

Kjersti understood instantly. Her hands still trembled, but without a word she placed a small rag in the pot, wrapped it around the wet stems, and handed it to Berit. Somehow, Berit managed to work the poultice into place, and the bleeding all but stopped.

The women looked at Mari’s face. It was as white as death itself, but she was breathing. The baby began to cry.

= = =

For four days and nights, Mari lay unconscious with Berit by her side. The Hundorp dairy sent goats’ milk, in which Berit would soak a rag and coax the baby girl to suck it out as best she could. Berit knew that the baby could not thrive, nor even survive indefinitely, on goats’ milk alone. A surrogate mother seemed out of the question. Of the few half-starved women who gave birth that winter, even the strongest ones produced barely enough milk to keep their own babies alive. When an infant died or was stillborn, the mother’s breasts dried up within hours.

Meanwhile, young Poul and Nels remained a few huts away, at the home of the potter Bjorn and his wife Helena Davidsdatter. The boys were hard-pressed to understand these events. Poul, six years old, was filled with questions. Nels, being younger, was too confused even to inquire. He still did not fully comprehend that his father was gone forever, and now the separation from his mother, and the announced arrival of a baby sister (but he couldn’t see her just yet), sent him alternately into fits of violent rage, deep withdrawal, and uncontrollable weeping that left no space for even a four-year-old’s compass of understanding.

On the fifth day Mari awoke, blinked her eyes, and looked around quizzically. Her eyes fell on Berit, then on the water bucket. She said softly, “W… wa …?”

A broad smile crossed Berit’s face as she quickly filled the ladle and held it to her friend’s lips. “You gave us a bad scare, Mari Nelsdatter. For a while were quite sure we would lose you.”

Mari took a tentative sip from the ladle. “Lo … you … Ma … ?” The sounds came slowly and with great effort.

“Never mind now, dear Mari. Everything will be fine. Just relax and take your rest.”

Mari closed her eyes and slept for the rest of the day, and all that night. The next morning, as Berit brought in firewood, Mari woke again, and raised herself to one elbow.

Before a word was spoken, Berit sat down in front of her mentor, studying her face carefully. Although her overall color was still an ashen gray, and her eyes were deep in their sockets, the slightest suggestion of pink had returned to Mari’s cheeks. Berit smiled and said, “There, I see you’re getting your old strength back. The priest came by on Monday to christen the baby. We named her Anna; I hope that’s all right with you. Would you like to hold her?”

Mari smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Berit lifted Anna from the makeshift cradle and handed her to Mari. The mother regarded her child as if she had never seen a baby before. Indeed, it seemed to her that she had not. Berit guided the baby to her mother’s breast, where she suckled greedily. She was rewarded with a trickle of milk less generous, but far sweeter than that from the master’s goats. Mari felt the warm satisfaction known only to a nursing mother. But of the source and reason for this pleasure, she had no more comprehension than did her newborn. She searched her mind, but everything around her seemed distant and vague, like disconnected pieces of a long-forgotten dream. And nothing had a name.

Later in the day, one at a time, the boys were allowed to visit their mother. They were cautioned beforehand to speak very quietly, and to ask no questions. They were told that their mother was still very weak from her ordeal, and had not fully awakened from her coma.

The first to visit was Poul. As he entered the hut, Berit was standing by the hearth, holding Anna. Ignoring the midwife and the baby, Poul ran to his mother’s bed and threw his arms around her. From the doorway, Helena said, “Poul, no! Not so quickly!”

Mari returned the boy’s embrace with surprising vigor. Yet even as he buried his face in her bosom, sobbing, “Mother, Mother!” she struggled in vain to remember him, to remember herself, to make sense of anything at all. She glanced at Berit with a questioning look.

Berit stepped forward and gently put her hand on Poul’s shoulder. “Poul, Poul, your mother is still very tired, and not quite awake.” But while she was addressing the boy, her eyes remained fixed on Mari.

Mari blinked, returning Berit’s gaze, and with effort, her lips silently formed the word, “mother.”

Poul sobbed and sobbed. “Oh, Mother, Mother! I was so afraid you would die, too!” Mari blinked again, and her lips formed the word “die.”

They held their embrace for a long while, the boy sobbing, his mother blinking. All the women’s eyes were on Poul.

= = =

While Helena and Poul were out, and Bjorn and his apprentice were busy at the kiln, Nels managed to quietly steal from the potter’s hut, following the ditch to the backside of his own home, where he had played so many times. But now, he was forbidden to be there, or anywhere, without Helena Davidsdatter. Even at four years old, Nels knew that if he were caught, he would be soundly thrashed.

He crept low, close to the tiny window. He heard his big brother sobbing, “Mother! Mother!” and from his mother, not a sound. He heard the reassuring words of the midwife, and from his mother, silence. Nels could not see inside; the window was high, and he dare not show himself. He could only imagine what had become of his mother, and what lay in store for him within the hour, when he must face her as well. He stole down the bank and ran back to the potter’s.

At length Helena and Poul returned. Poul’s clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were red. The boys looked at each other, but did not speak. Helena said, “Well, Nels, now you may visit your mother.”

“No,” said Nels.

“What?”

“I don’t want to.”

Helena was aghast. “You don’t want to? Nels Poulsen, you are four years old. Who are you to ‘not want to’ see your own mother? Little boys burn forever in hell for such dishonor!”

Nels started crying. Helena’s eyes filled with tears as well, and she said, “I’m sorry, Nels, I’m sorry. But you have to go.”

But now that Nels’ crying had started, it did not stop so easily. It began small, with just a little sniffle, a single tear. Then a couple of sobs, which he almost could stifle, then howls that could not be contained by the mountains or the sky.

Bjorn came running inside. “What happened? Is the little one dying?”

“No,” said Helena. “He is upset about his mother. Thank God she is alive, but…” Helena stopped herself.

“But he hasn’t even seen her yet.”

“Never mind.”

Nels howled louder. “Listen, Nels Poulsen,” said Bjorn in a menacing voice.

“Stop it, Bjorn!” Helena picked up the toddler, still wailing at the top of his lungs, and took him outside to the barren, frozen potato field. Bjorn went back to the kiln, grumbling to himself.

Poul sat down at the table alone, more confused than ever. He started to cry again, but softly, trying hard not to make a sound. He thought to himself, “Father was strong. Father never cried. Or did he? Now I can’t remember. Mother was strong. Mother sang us songs. Mother told us stories. Didn’t she? It was so long ago…”

When Nels’ howling began to subside of its own accord, Helena began singing softly. “Cradle me a little, my mama, my mom,” Nels grew quieter. “A string on your shirt I will give to you,” Nels squirmed but fell silent. “Do you want yellow, do you want blue, my mama, my mom?”

“Mama,” murmured Nels, as he drifted off to sleep. Helena shifted his weight in her arms and walked slowly to Mari’s hut.

Berit came out to meet them. She eyed the sleeping boy and whispered, “Not so excited to be here?”

“He had a fit,” replied Helena.

Berit glanced toward the door. “She’s sleeping too. Bring him in without waking him if you can.” Berit helped them through the small doorway. Mari awoke and watched silently as Helena sat down, settling the boy, still sleeping, in her lap. Mari sensed some strong connection, but was unable to recall it. Berit looked at Mari, then at Nels, then back to Mari, who was still staring at her son. Berit touched her shoulder.

“Ja, Mari,” Berit whispered, “this is Nels, your other son.” At the sound of his name, Nels’ eyes blinked open.

Mari struggled. “N… Ne…”

“Mama?” said Nels, returning her anguished, frightened look.

“Ma…ma,” repeated Mari, and smiled faintly.