THE BECKONING ARCTIC
TO live in a hut in the Arctic had always been my husband’s wish-dream. Whenever anything went wrong in our European home, a short circuit, a burst pipe, or even if the rent was raised, he would always say that nothing like that could happen in a hut in the Arctic.
After taking part in a scientific expedition, my husband remained in Spitsbergen, fishing in the Arctic from his cutter, and in winter, when everything was frozen over, hunting for furs on the mainland. Letters and telegrams used to come from the far north: “Leave everything as it is and follow me to the Arctic.”
But for me at that time, as for all central Europeans, the Arctic was just another word for freezing and forsaken solitude. I did not follow at once.
Then gradually the diaries that arrived in summer from the far north began to fascinate me. They told of journeys by water and over ice, of the animals and the fascination of the wilderness, of the strange light over the landscape, of the strange illumination of one’s own self in the remoteness of the polar night. In his descriptions there was practically never any mention of cold or darkness, of storms or hardships.
The little winter hut appeared to me in a more and more friendly light. As housewife I would not have to accompany him on the dangerous winter excursions. I could stay by the warm stove in the hut, knit socks, paint from the window, read thick books in the remote quiet and, not least, sleep to my heart’s content.
The decision to hazard a winter’s stay ripened in my mind. I made careful preparations, for I wanted to set foot in the Arctic well protected, as though I were sitting in a warm comfortable seat in the cinema, with all the events and the unfamiliar beauty of the polar night unrolling before me. Mothers, grandmothers, and aunts knitted warm wraps; fathers, uncles, and brothers presented me with the latest heating equipment. Just the same, they kept telling me that it was hare-brained idiocy for a woman to go to the Arctic.
The latest letter arrived from my husband:
I hope you’re going to keep your promise and come up here this year. I’ve taken over for next winter a little hut on the north coast of Spitsbergen. It’s supposed to be well and strongly built. It won’t be too lonely for you because at the northeast corner of the coast, about sixty miles from here, there is another hunter living, an old Swede. We can visit him in the spring when it’s light again and the sea and fiords are frozen over.
Apart from your ski boots, you don’t need to bring anything. There are skis and equipment here left over from a previous travelling companion. I’ll see about provisions and everything else needed for the winter.
Don’t bring anything more than you can yourself comfortably carry in a rucksack. There’s a very good opportunity for us to make the journey. We shall row straight across the Ice Fiord from Advent Anchorage with the hunter Nois. Then he will take us on in his dog sleigh over the glacier, and from there we’ll go on alone, across the Wijde Fiord straight on. At the most we’ll have to cross a few glacier streams. We can get to our house on the north coast in about fourteen days.
Telegraph me at once what ship you’ll be coming on. I will radio-telegraph you later onboard ship instructions about where to disembark.
PS. If you still have room in your rucksack, bring enough toothpaste for two people for a year, and also sewing needles.
A few hours after receiving this letter I had bought my sailing ticket and telegraphed my husband the name of the ship and the date of its sailing. Only then did I give way to the disgust I felt because I was to take no luggage with me. The things I had got ready! Apart from equipment, a feather bed, and hot-water bottles, there were books to read and books to write in, paint boxes and films, baking powder and spices, wool for knitting and wool for darning. What wouldn’t be needed for a whole year in the arctic wilderness, with a man who for all I knew had himself grown wild in the last few years . . .