“The Bible is lying over there!” said the sick woman. “Read a little for me. It’s a long evening, and I so deeply need to hear the word of God.”
And Sara bowed her head. Her hands folded around the Bible, which she opened and read for the sick woman. She was often in tears, but her eyes became clearer, and clarity filled her soul: “Mother, your child will not take a Christian Baptism, not be counted within their society. You have demanded that, and I will keep that promise. We are united in that here on this earth, but beyond this world—there is a greater unity in God.
She trembled when she spoke His holy name and a baptism of fire shot through her body that was stronger than it could bear. She fell forward, weaker than the sick woman she kept watch over.
“Poor Sara!” they said. “She overexerted herself with work and care-giving.”
She was taken to the infirmary for the poor, where she died. From there she was buried but not in the Christian cemetery. That was not the place for the Jewish maid. No, she was buried outside, up against the churchyard wall.
And God’s sunshine, that shone over all the Christian graves, also shone over the Jewish maid’s grave outside the wall, and the sound of hymns that were heard in the Christian cemetery reached her grave as well. The preaching reached there too: “There is resurrection in Christ!” He who said to his disciples,
THE STORY OLD JOHANNA TOLD
THE WIND’S SIGHING THROUGH the old willow branches.
It’s as if you heard a song. The wind is singing it, and the tree is telling the story. If you don’t understand it, ask old Johanna in the poor house. She knows it. She was born here in the district.
Years ago, when the King’s highway still passed by here, the tree was already big and conspicuous. It stood where it still stands, out from the tailor’s white-washed half-timbered house right near the pond, which at that time was so big that the cattle were watered there, and where in the warm summer time, the farmers’ small children ran around naked and splashed in the water. Right up under the tree a milestone of carved stone had been raised, but now it has fallen over, and brambles grow over it.
The new King’s highway was laid right beside the rich farmer’s land, and the old road became a track. The pond became a puddle, overgrown with duckweed. If a frog jumped in, the green separated, and you saw the black water. Cattails, bog beans, and yellow iris grew round about, and grow there still.
The tailor’s house became old and crooked, and the roof became a hotbed for moss and houseleeks. The pigeon coop collapsed, and the starlings built their nests there. The swallows built nest upon nest along the gable of the house and under the roof, as if this were a lucky place to live.
And once it was. Now it had become lonely and quiet. But “poor Rasmus,” as he was called, simple and weak-willed, lived there. He was born there and had played there as a child, running over meadows and jumping fences. He had splashed as a little boy in the open pond and climbed the old tree.
It lifted its big branches in magnificent beauty, as it still does, but storms had already twisted the trunk a little, and time had cracked it. Weather and wind had deposited dirt in the crack; grass and greenery were growing there, and even a little mountain ash tree had planted itself.
When the swallows came in the spring, they flew around among the trees and the roof—patching and repairing their old nests. Poor Rasmus let his nest stand or fall as it would. He neither patched nor propped it up. “What good does it do?” was his saying, as it had been his father’s.
He remained in his home. The swallows flew away, but they came back, those faithful creatures. The starlings flew away, and they returned and whistled their songs. Once Rasmus had whistled in competition with them, but now he no longer whistled or sang.
The wind sighed through the old willow, and is still sighing. It’s as if you heard a song. The wind is singing it, and the tree is telling the story. If you don’t understand it, ask old Johanna in the poorhouse. She knows it. She knows a lot about old times. She’s like a historical register, full of memoirs and old memories.
When the house was a good new one, the village tailor Ivar Olse moved in there with his wife Maren. Both of them were hard-working, honest folks. Old Johanna was a child then, the daughter of a clog maker, one of the poorest men in the district. She got many a good sandwich from Maren, who didn’t lack for food, and was on good terms with the mistress of the estate. She was always laughing and happy. She remained cheerful and used her mouth as well as her hands. She was as nimble with the needle as with her mouth and looked after her house and children. There were nearly a dozen of them, eleven to be exact—the twelfth failed to appear.
“Poor people always have a nest full of kids!” growled the squire. “If you could drown them like you do kittens and only keep one or two of the strongest, there would be less misery!”
“Good Lord!” said the tailor’s wife. “Children are a blessing from God. They’re the joy of the house. Every child is one more prayer to God. If things are tight, and there are many mouths to feed, then you work harder and find ways and honest means. The Lord doesn’t let go, if we don’t let go of him!”
The mistress of the manor agreed with her, nodded in a friendly way, and patted Maren on the cheek. She had done that many times and kissed her too, but that was when the mistress was a little child, and Maren was her nanny. They had always cared about each other, and they still did.
Every year at Christmas time winter supplies came from the manor to the tailor’s house: a barrel of flour, a pig, two geese, a quarter barrel butter, cheese, and apples. That helped the pantry! Ivar Olse looked pleased about it too, but soon expressed his old saying, “What good does it do?”
The house was neat and clean. There were curtains in the windows and flowers too, both pinks and impatiens. Hanging in a picture frame was a sampler with the family name, and close by hung an acrostic letter in rhyme that Maren Olse had written herself. She knew how rhymes went. She was actually quite proud of the family name “Olse” because it was the only word in Danish that rhymed with “polse,” sausage. “It’s always something to have what no one else has!” she said and laughed. She always retained her good humor. She never said “What good does it do?” like her husband did. Her motto was “Have faith in yourself and the Lord.” That’s what she did, and that held everything together. The children thrived and grew from the nest, traveled far afield, and did well. Rasmus was the youngest. He was such a beautiful child that one of the great portrait painters from the city had borrowed him to use as a model, with him as naked as the day he was born. That painting hung now at the King’s palace where
