The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

school where the students studied agriculture and animal husbandry. Pappa, who was a farmer and ran the neighbouring farm, often held classes for the students. They would follow him around, helping to milk the cows, taking care of the pigs and sheep. Part of the barn had been turned into a stable, using money from the school, with space for eight horses. Sometimes my sister and I were allowed to ride them. That was our favourite thing to do.
    Mamma worked the night shift as a nurse at the hospital in Enköping and was often away from home during the week. She would work three or four days in a row and then have several days off. I thought that was a fine schedule. Periodically we’d have Pappa all to ourselves, and then when Mamma was at home, she’d take over and Pappa would spend most of his time in the barn or out in the fields.
    Every Sunday we went to church. It was a small white building with a single rectangular tower rising up over the landscape: golden fields of oat slowly undulating in the wind, flowering meadows, pastures where the horses and cows grazed in the summertime, and far below we could see the glittering water of Lake Mälaren. At exactly eleven o’clock the bells would ring for the church service. The clear sound reverberated over the few houses in that little community, the stable and the barn, the school and the student dormitories. Occasionally a car would arrive, bringing people from the outlying areas to the church service. There might be ten or fifteen people in attendance in addition to my own family.
    I don’t know whether my parents’ zeal with regard to churchgoing had to do with a strong belief in God or whether it was more a show of courtesy to their best friends, the pastor and his wife. They had three children who were much younger than us, so we didn’t play with them very often, but my sister and I did sometimes babysit for them so we could earn some extra pocket money. The pastor’s wife was both kind and generous, and she always paid us more than the usual fee. She and my mother belonged to the same sewing circle, and they spent a lot of time together. They usedto go for long walks, and they were always running over to each other’s house to have coffee.
    We went to church every single Sunday, and to be honest I have to confess that no matter how much I complained to my sister, I actually enjoyed those Sunday mornings in God’s house. It was a small church, simply furnished. The wooden pews were old and worn with thick timbers along the sides. The church had a brass chandelier, a painted window, a picture of Jesus, a beautifully ornate pulpit, and a humble altar. I liked watching how the sun’s rays came through the high windows in the deep niches, casting light on the bare, white-plastered walls. I can still recall the faces of the parishioners sitting in the pews and the intoning voice of the pastor. Everything was always exactly the same. The same prayers, hymns, and turns of phrase. I knew them inside and out. When I was little, I still had a childlike faith; I believed in God and everything that was said in church. The pastor’s words were sacred. Although it did seem a bit strange to see him there in church, this man who came so often to our house, with his loud laughter and effusive manner. But I also felt a certain pride that he was actually one of our friends, that he could sit in our kitchen and tell funny stories to Mamma while she peeled potatoes and doubled over with laughter at his jokes.
    No one could make her laugh the way he did.
    Pappa and the pastor spent just as much time together as the two women did. Pappa was a reserved man who didn’t make friends easily. And he rarely said much; the words had to be practically dragged out of him. He had a hard time even talking to his own children. For some reason, he seemed to feel inhibited.
    A memory that is still fresh in my mind is of one morning when I awoke unusually early. I was about twelve at the time. I went to the toilet, but then I heard a sound from the kitchen downstairs and wondered what it could be. The floorboards, gleaming in the morning sunlight, creaked under my bare feet. The house was very quiet. Everyone else was still asleep in bed. Cautiously I tiptoed down the wide stairs. Someone was in the kitchen, but at first I didn’t know who it was. I remember standing in the doorway. At first I didn’t see anything; then I recognized my father’sstriped bathrobe. He was sitting with his