Emma's world: A Memory of Lapland

A couple of years ago I backpacked in Lapland with a friend. It was in February, not exactly at the warmest time of the year. We were happily feeling the cold cutting our cheeks and freezing our eyelashes, and often lost our voice to the cold. We walked on the frozen sea in Luleå saw a beautiful low sun permanently on our way up north, were stalked by a loner in an empty 200 inhabitants town by -30°C, whom we escaped by seeking refuge in an empty youth hostel, used the latter's sauna for most of the night, made some French classes in a secondary school up to the polar circle, dogsledged, ate reindeer's heart and tongue (we were two vegetarians, enough said), and wore necklaces ingenuously made of dried reindeer defecations.We saw the mining town of Kiruna, which made me think of Moria, although I must admit I didn't see any long-bearded dwarves there. We visited an ice hotel, which was interesting as in "why would you pay a fortune to spend a night freezing there - or your honeymoon even - when you can just walk by and visit the chambers before returning to the cosy world of heaters?" We also took a train along a fjord, and encountered several difficulties due to accidents involving drunken reindeers. And though we missed out on the northern lights we did see some beautiful evening skies. All in all, it was a pretty complete and adventurous travel.

Midday somewhere in Lapland

But the most gripping moment I remember was when we were walking out of a village, in the quiet cold, as the trees cast long shades on an iced road, and we arrived past a two-storey building just before the forest. On the threshold, a very old man was calling out to us. None of us had the slightest clue about Swedish language, so we weren't quite sure about what he was saying, however we were both very curious. As a history lover, I must admit that I love elderly people: they are full of memories, they lived through so many events, witnessed so many things. In addition to that, many of them are very polite and offer nice tea and cakes when visited. I wasn't going to be disappointed with this one. As he gestured towards a window, we understood that he wanted us to come in. And as the cautious travellers we were, we decided to take him up on his offer and followed him inside. He made us sit at his kitchen table, from where we had a beautiful view on a collection of kitchen knives. But he looked too old to make any dangerous use of them - at least against us.
He placed two tea cups in front of us, and then he started to talk very quickly, in Swedish, with pauses and emphasis every now and then. Sometimes, his eyes would suddenly fill with tears and terror, and at other moments he would vociferate like a devil. We still had no idea what he was talking about. Then, we realised that he was repeating the same couple of sentences. Focusing hard, we understood that he was talking about World War Two. In fact, he never spoke Swedish to us, but Norwegian. He was a Norwegian soldier who had been made prisoner by the German army during one of the battles of Narvik and sent to a labor camp. Since then, he had never returned home and had been allocated this flat in a Swedish town. He went on and on about that particular event, and on the fourth or fifth similar account of his, we were still nodding and trying to show interest. We then realised it wasn't necessary as he never seemed to notice our questions. In fact, he wasn't looking at us. We got up, took our leave, and left the flat. Once out of the building, we could still see him through the window kitchen. He hadn't moved, only now he was facing a wall. And telling his story, over, and over. Alzheimer's disease had locked him into his own memories, and the only thing he seemed to remember was that tragic part of his life.