From the Improvement Era, February 1968 —

Journey at Dawn

By Eugene A. Hooper, Jr.

Kaarlo Maki pulled the thick fur collar of his coat tighter about his throat and tucked the edge of his black woolen scarf under his fur hat. It was bitter cold, too cold to be riding a bicycle and too cold for an old man to be away from his stove and hot cereal. His breath froze in ice crystals on his moustache and fur collar and made the tiny red blood vessels zigzag brightly through his leathery cheeks. Stubbornly, his old legs pushed the pedals around, and the tires crunched the snowy crust on the ice.

He could have waited until the noon train, but the morning milk train would get him there faster. He heard the whistle off in the distance and knew that the train was approaching the paper factory. The tall smokestack of the factory was becoming visible in the early morning light of the Finnish February. Its column of white smoke rose a few yards above the stack and then bent itself flat to follow the wind to the south horizon, making a white stream in the cold, gray sky.

Kaarlo was puffing. The coat and two sweaters held the warmth of his old body in and caused him to perspire, but he dared not loosen his collar in the cold.

He approached the ancient wooden station and pedaled up to the bicycle rack at the front porch. There were already several bicycles locked in the rack. Some of them were bent and rusty, but all had the same layer of frost crystals on the handlebars and spokes. Kaarlo’s bicycle fit easily at the end of the rack, and he was glad to climb off and lock it. The spring clamp snapped shut when he pulled his leather satchel from the rear fender. The ice crystals that stood straight out on the brass lock of the bag turned into drops of water when he entered the warm station. He wiped water drops from his moustache and loosened his collar and scarf.

The ticket agent, in a blue uniform, smiled at Kaarlo. Kaarlo did not smile back but soberly laid three one-mark bills on the tray.

“You look tired this morning, Kaarlo,” the ticket agent offered in sympathetic concern.

Kaarlo shrugged his shoulders and felt the weight of his years crowd his strength. “I am an old man,” he said. “Too old to lose my son.”

The ticket agent was startled. “Has something happened to Matti?”

Kaarlo bowed his head in humiliation as he muttered, “Something terrible. He says he will become a Mormon!”

“It cannot be true! Matti knows better. What is he thinking?”

“I do not know,” Kaarlo said, his voice shaking with indignation. “This is why I must go to him. I must stop him before he throws his life away and shames his family.”

Kaarlo picked up his ticket and slowly walked out to the waiting train. His heart was heavy as he climbed the steps to the coach and found a seat at the end of the car. The straight wooden back of the seat exercised its discipline, and the old man braced himself, with his hands clutching the front edge of the seat. The jerking motion of the train rocked Kaarlo from side to side, and with each sway his son’s name moved his tongue. His old mind was bewildered and tired. The questions rocked him almost as hard as the train. “Why do you do this to me ? Who do you love more than your old papa?”

The bleak loneliness of the Finnish winter landscape reflected no sympathy or feeling of kindness outside the dimly lit train. Occasionally a small farmhouse would break the cold scene. Kaarlo began to talk to himself in a quiet mumble. “I am like one of those farmhouses, alone in a cold world, and my son is like this train, puffing ahead on his own steam and passing me by. He will forget me and become trapped by that new religion.”

Tears weakened his proud old face as he thought of Helmi. Surely, if she were still alive, Matti would not deliberately shame her. Better for her to be dead than grieved by her son. Kaarlo’s back hurt against the wooden bench. He was chilly and hungry and should not have left his cottage without eating something. Perhaps he would buy a bowl of broth when he arrived in Oulu.

He looked at the other passengers in the coach and wondered if they bore a grief such as his. Here in Finland, he thought, the people should be free from strange and harmful ideas of religion.

The forests and lakes were close on every hand, and man had but to tend his fields and gather his family to him at evening time.

“Matti, my son,” he murmured. “Come back here to Kemi and to your papa. You can sell your tools here.”

The train was coming to a halt at the Oulu station. Kaarlo watched the freight rails clip by, and then he was looking down at the faces on the platform. The train groaned and squealed as the cold steel of tracks and wheels fought each other to a stop. He pulled himself to his feet and limped toward the door. A few people hurried through the car, squeezing past him, and he felt the cold escaping from them. helped him climb off the train, and as he stepped onto the deserted platform, the icy wind grabbed at his face like a claw and stung until he was in the station house. He stood for a few minutes staring across the waiting room. The clock above the ticket window showed 7:30, too late to catch Matti at home and perhaps too early to visit him at his store.

The little bags of candy and bowls of fruit at the magazine stand reminded him that he had not prepared a hot breakfast before he left home. A cozy cafe would make a nice place to wait and to think.

Before he left the station, he fixed his scarf over his nose and mouth and pulled the fur hat down even with his eyebrows. It was early yet, and men dressed in brown leather work clothes were shoveling dirt onto the icy streets from horse-drawn wagons.

Kaarlo left the station and walked to a cafe a few yards ahead. The air inside was steamy and fragrant with the smell of hot soup and cooked mush, and the place was crowded with men joking and eating. He picked up a tray and helped himself to hot stew, black rye bread, and thick buttermilk. The steaming tray was a bit of comfort to his worried mind, and he took his time warming and filling himself. The cold emptiness dissipated gradually, as did the crowd.

Then he bundled himself up again and went out into the cold. He crossed the street to the market square where men and women, dressed in gray twill and black felt coats and black boots, were setting up booths. The white canvas roofs were badly stained from the weather, and Kaarlo watched for a while as the wares were hung and arranged under them. Helmi had tended such a booth in Imatra, selling sauna bath brushes and sponges. Until he was old enough for school, Matti used to play around the booths. Kaarlo could remember Helmi pulling the heavy cart, with Matti perched on top of it, up to the shed behind the cottage.

He shook his head at the memory, and a fresh surge of heaviness filled his soul as he made his way across the square and up the street to Matti’s apartment. The landlady unlocked the door for him, and he slowly shut it behind him. The place was clean, and the modern furnishings were evidence of Matti’s success in business.

Kaarlo laid his wraps on a bench by the door and set his leather satchel down beside it. The clock showed the hour of ten. It would be a long wait until evening, and he felt the strain of his journey. Easing himself into a large chair, he soon slept.

He awoke in mid-afternoon to the whistle of the howling wind. The whirl of white outside the window bleached the view and softened the afternoon light. He stretched himself as much as his bent limbs would allow and rose from the chair. He felt rested in body but his soul was growing more restless as he saw the hour nearing three. The hard business of waiting confused his thinking, and a dozen dialogues passed through his mind, each one growing more bitter as he argued with his son until he was shouting and cursing within himself. The gnarled old hand wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“What will I say to my son?” he muttered, and shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.

He walked to the desk and switched on the lamp. His eyes scanned the shelves and stopped. For a moment he was stunned with bitterness; then his anger mounted. He stretched out his trembling hand, grabbed the book by its front cover, and flung it wildly across the room. The title page remained in his grip. He spat on the words “Book of Mormon” and crushed the sheet into a ball, twisting it in his hand.

He dropped on the sofa and stared in hatred at the torn book. “Cursed book!” he snarled.

A picture of Matti as a soldier hung between pictures of Kaarlo and Helmi on the wall opposite the sofa. Kaarlo’s gaze switched from the book to the picture. “How proud and fine a son you were in battle for your homeland,” he whispered. “How could such a fine mind like yours be trapped by a heathen religion?”

He looked back to the torn book on the floor. “What could such a book contain to lure my son?”

The howling of the wind had ceased outside the window. Kaarlo felt the same emptiness draining his heart as on the cold night when he lost Helmi. It was during the winter war against Russia. Helmi had volunteered with the women of the town to gather firewood in the forest. It was dangerous business to comb through the woods so close to the lines of battle in eastern Finland, and an undetected mine exploded as Helmi and the cart full of wood passed over it. Kaarlo sent little Matti to be cared for by his sister in Kemi on the western coast until the war had ended. To return to Imatra without Helmi seemed unthinkable, and so Kaarlo also moved to Kemi.

Now he again felt a destructive force invading his family.

“I must save my son!” he cried. “I’ll expose this enemy and make Matti see its danger!”

He rose tremblingly and walked to where the book lay. Bending down, he picked it up and carried it back to the desk. His shaking fingers smoothed the crumpled pages and opened them to the first chapter. The old eyes bowed closer to the book and squinted until the words found clarity. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. . . .” The words caught in his throat. “Matti, haven’t you been born of goodly parents ?” he cried aloud.

“Of course I have, Papa.”

Kaarlo turned toward the door. Matti was brushing the snow from his coat and beaming at the sight of his father.

“When did you come, Papa? You shouldn’t be out in a storm like this.”

Kaarlo’s voice was trembling as he struggled

to address his son. “Ah, the storm, the storm! It is not so bad as this enemy which seeks to tear you from your own papa!” He waved the book in front of him.

“Papa, what do you mean? I am not being torn from you. I want you to hear about the most rewarding news I’ve been blessed to receive!”

“I will not hear of it!” Kaarlo exclaimed.

Matti let his coat and hat drop over his father’s wraps on the bench.

“The cold and dark make us cross and hungry. Let me make a warm supper for you, Papa.”

Kaarlo nodded and settled back down onto the sofa. “Rewarding news, hah! Who brings this news that shades your eyes?”

Matti came into the living room with a sack of rice in his hands. “Two Americans who are fine young men sent by the Lord. They will call on me tonight. I want you to meet them.”

“No!” Kaarlo shook his head. “I will not see them.”

Matti shrugged his shoulders and turned back into the kitchen. Kaarlo’s grip tightened on the book until his knuckles were white; then he laid it on the sofa and went into the kitchen. The meal was hot and satisfying to the old man. His nerves
felt relaxed as he listened with pride as his son reviewed the success of his store. A man so wise and successful as Matti should not be easily trapped by nonsense, Kaarlo thought. Perhaps this thing was not nonsense or foolishness, but certainly it was evil and deceiving.

Matti rose and began to clear the table.

“The Americans come in half an hour, Papa. You will like them, you’ll see.”

Kaarlo shook his head. “I go to bed. You send them away if you love your papa and your homeland.”

Matti felt his father’s words bite into the joy of his new faith.

“Let me help you into bed, Papa.”

Matti shut the door between the living room and the bedroom. He stood for a moment with head bowed and hands clasped. The prayer for the understanding of his father was short and simple. As he opened his eyes he saw the crumpled page on the floor and the closed book on the sofa.

“What could make Papa hate it so much?”

If anyone were ever alone and needing comfort and faith, Matti knew it must be his father. The stubbornness against change and the lack of enthusiasm for life must be conquered, but how?

He heard the missionaries getting off the elevator and hurried to the door to open it as they rang. The two young men brushed the snow off, their red faces shining with wide smiles as Matti welcomed them inside. They joked and laughed about the cold weather before getting down to business. Matti felt the strength of their spirit pour into his own new testimony as he visited with them. How he wished that his father could join in this happiness and light!

Elder Davis cleared his throat and asked Matti if he would like to open their meeting with prayer. The request caught him off guard, but he knelt with the elders and began to pray. As he prayed he thought of his father lying in the dark, alone and bitter. “, . . and bless my father that he may accept and understand thy truths, which I must take upon myself.”

He finished the prayer and sat down. The missionaries were visibly touched by the sincerity of the prayer, and Elder Davis inquired about Matti’s father.

Kaarlo lay in the darkness trying to shut out the conversation in the next room. The more he fought it, the more he had to listen.

“Brother Maki, we’ve had a change in your baptismal arrangements,” the missionary was saying.

“Good, good!” Kaarlo, in the next room, whispered to himself.

The elder continued : “How would you like to be baptized tomorrow afternoon rather than next week?”

Kaarlo was rocked by panic. “Say no! Never!” he shouted within himself.

“The reason for the change,” Elder Davis continued, “is that the swimming hall has been rescheduled for competition next week. We have the portable font coming on the midnight train from Pori, and we can set it up in the chapel tomorrow.”

Matti looked toward the bedroom door and then back to the elders. “What time shall I meet you at the chapel?”

The tears shone in the eyes of Elders Davis and Clark as smiles of gratitude spread across their faces. Kaarlo’s heart was sinking in hurt and bitterness. The dark room seemed to be closing tighter about him as he felt Helmi and now Matti fading out of his life forever.

“Is there anything you would like to ask or review before we get into, our discussion?” Elder Davis asked.

Matti thought for a moment. “Yes, there is. I’d like you to review the journey of man through the Lord’s plan of eternal life.”

“The journey of man indeed!” Kaarlo coughed.

Elder Clark set up his flannel board and proceeded to explain the plan of salvation as outlined in the scriptures. Matti answered the questions with accuracy.

The whole story was inconceivable to Kaarlo. Why, even the priest had declared at Helmi’s funeral that her spirit would rest forever in that great beyond while her body remained forever in the ground.

As Elder Clark finished the review, Elder Davis added his testimony. Kaarlo heard him declare that he knew that families would be reunited and resurrected to live in the vigor of their manhood and the beauty of their womanhood in the presence of God, if they accepted God’s plan here on earth. The statement struck Kaarlo like a bolt of lightning. “My Helmi alive and waiting for me?” His heart was pounding. “Can it be true?” he whispered.

How much longer the missionaries stayed was unknown to Kaarlo. His mind was held captive by the memory of his lovely Helmi. How was her hair fixed ? In a braid, a bun, or flowing over her shoulder? Yes, yes, that was it — long and lovely and golden as the sun-warmed wheat. Her eyes were blue as the summer sky is blue, and her skin, clear and pink. Was he crying? The tears trickled down his cheeks. Wonderful, gay Helmi! Remember how she proudly stood in the door of the little cottage by the lake and presented him with his tiny son as he returned from the logging camp? There she is now, standing on the little boat dock at the lake with the picnic basket in one arm and Matti in the other. How full of life and youth and joy she is, with the warmth of summer all about her. The old man stretched forth his arms to enfold her tenderly. It was as if she were there, vibrant and sweet, in the room with him now.

Then came the ravages of war, and in the white and empty bleakness of the winter forest she was gone. Kaarlo felt himself standing in the little cemetery by the church as her coffin was slowly lifted from the cart and placed in the frozen ground. The gray wooden box disappeared beneath the dirt and snow. “Helmi!” the old man cried. “We had so little time!”

The voice of Elder Davis rang clear in his mind: “. . . and live in the beauty of their womanhood forever.”

“Is it true, is it true?” Kaarlo kept asking, as he tossed and turned all night. First Helmi, then the book he had torn, and then Matti danced before his vision through the long hours.

Perhaps he slept and dreamed — he could not tell ; but the dull aching in his back and shoulders reminded him that he had not rested. He sat up slowly and rested on the edge of the bed. The room was still dark, but he shuffled his way to the window and parted the drapes. The air was clear and the scene still and sharp. He glanced toward the clear black of the sky; the few stars that remained in the pre-dawn were brilliant. The pureness of the night flowed into his soul and sharpened the longing he felt for Helmi. He stared at the sky.

“Oh, tell me,” he cried, “is it true what the Americans say?” It was the first time he had ever called upon any divine being. He stumbled back to the bed and fell exhausted upon it. . . .

Matti threw back the covers and swung his feet into his slippers before the alarm went off. Today he would be baptized and take his first step toward the kingdom of God! He was excited and happy; then he remembered his father’s bitterness. The worry he felt edged out the joy and left him troubled as he washed and dressed. Before he left his room, he knelt down by the side of his bed and prayed.

“Please, Father in heaven, help Papa to understand what I must do.” Peace returned to his heart as he rose from his knees and went into the kitchen. He fixed a breakfast tray and carried it into his father.

Kaarlo opened his eyes as his son entered the room. “You bring your old papa his breakfast in bed? You are a good son.”

“It’s been a long time since I did something good for you, Papa.”

“Nonsense! You’re always good to me.”

Matti set the tray on Kaarlo’s lap and watched while the old man ate the hot mush. “Papa,” he hesitated, “I will be baptized today into the Mormon Church.”

Kaarlo nodded his head. “I know. I heard your American friends speak of it last night.”

Matti watched his father’s eyes carefully, but he could not read the expression behind them. “Papa, I don’t mean to hurt you or bring you shame, but I have to join the Mormons. I know that they speak the truth.”

The old man searched his son’s face before speaking. “You have been a good son, always, and you have never been dishonest with your papa. Are you sure that this new religion is the truth?”

“Yes, Papa, I am sure.”

“Then I must ask you something else. Last night the Americans said we live in youth and fineness with God in a future life. Is my Helmi really there, alive and waiting?”

The earnestness with which Kaarlo spoke tugged at Matti’s heart. With joyful faith he answered, “Oh, yes! Don’t you see, Papa? I have
prayed that the Lord would bless you with understanding, and he has answered my prayers!”

“I know,” Kaarlo said. “I have prayed too, and someday, perhaps, I shall be baptized a Mormon, if they have room for an old man!”

Matti lifted the tray and smiled at his father with a twinkle in his eye.

“You know, Papa? I too have been born of goodly parents!”