Mama said. I had to be protected from myself because I didnât have an ounce of fear in my body.
âYou would go along with anyone at all without something inside you telling you to stop. Do anything you like, get into real trouble.â That wasnât true. I never got into trouble.
Mama tried to teach me what fear was.
Papa tried.
Both my grandmothers and grandfathers tried.
All my aunts and uncles.
And Lukas.
No, maybe not Lukas. But the others tried.
Yes, Lukas did as well. Trust your fear, he used to say.
BRUSHFIRE
O ne dry, aimless day in an infinitely long summer, a brushfire broke out beside the railway that carved through the landscape. A landscape already scorched by the sun, my landscape, open and gently sloping down toward the lake.
It burned in the field of barley and along the railway embankment, smelled of singed weeds and tar, white-hot rails, blackened barbed wire. Insects and field mice burned. The earth burned. The blackthorn bushes crackled, the turkey sheds smoldered and screeched. Something was changing, a feeling of security melted away; a different mood would take its place.
The news spread as fast as the fire. It was in the middle of the factory holiday, and most people were at home and rushed up from all sides. When the whole village was standing ready along the edge of the field it looked like a civil defense exercise, were it not for the terror in peopleâs eyes. The flames advanced rapidly in all directions with the help of the wind. Allowed to run its course, it would soon reach the houses. The fire brigade took its time. It was a much drier summer than usual in the middle of harvest, and perhaps there were fires in several places at once. But we couldnât wait, as the fire wouldnât wait. Mama and Papaâs mother started to break off large branches along the embankment for all the helping hands. Cooperation and working together were needed nowâjust like the old days, one of the elderly people said.
Everyone in my family was there, and I wanted to be there too. At first they tried to push me out of the way, but soon it was all they could do to keep the fire in check and they were no longer aware of me. I ran back and forth with water like all the others. Saw Mama go dangerously close to the worst of the fire, saw Papaâs brothers help to smother the flames with military blankets and tarpaulins. Two tall women, my fatherâs sister and my motherâs, walked along the embankment in menâs high Wellington boots, stamping out the embers. Papaâs father Björn and Mamaâs father Aron worked side by side with quick, jerky strides, like brothers in identical overalls, but Grandfather Björn was taller by a head, as enormous as the bear he was named after. They wanted to show that they were just as capable of work as their sons, and they had begun to create a firebreak in the field so that the blaze would lose its hold. I saw Mamaâs mother standing on the side of the hill cradling an empty zinc bowl, as if she didnât know why she was standing there. As if someone had tricked her into thinking that she could direct the teamwork from up there, just to keep her out of the way. Papa had burned his hands and was being bandaged up by Mamaâs brother, who ruthlessly ripped wide strips from Papaâs favorite shirt to protect his damaged palms. My motherâs sisters were members of the long chains of people passing water out of the nearest houses from hand to hand.
â
The fire spread along the side of the hill as if it would never be halted. Working against the wind, we tried to limit the disaster, until at long last we heard the sirens approach.
It was dangerous to get in the way of the hard jets of water. Everyone drew backâall except one, a teenage boy I had already noticed as the only one to get nearer to the fire than my mama. At times he looked almost as if he were standing in the flames. When everyone else