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Authors: Mikael Niemi
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happened, who has beaten up whom, and in what order; the same thing happens on Anders’s side. Exaggerations in the interests of propaganda are common. Eighteen-year-old second cousins twice removed and even fathers receive urgent requests for assistance, but claim they couldn’t care less about the petty squabbles of little kids.
That gives some idea of how things developed. The most elaborate of chain thrashings would involve classmates, neighbors, and an entire range of friends, especially if the two original combatants came from different parts of the village. In that case it was Vittulajänkkä versus Paskajänkkä, or Strandvägen versus Texas, and war was declared.
The duration of a chain thrashing could be anything from a few days to several months. The norm was a few weeks, following the pattern described above. The first stage was scuffling and an exchange of blows with little kids crying. Then came the threat stage, with the strongest ones involved roaming the village with their eyes peeled while the little kids stayed in hiding at home. If any of the little brats got caught, it was no laughing matter, believe you me. I used to think that was the worst stage, that non-stop terror between school and the relative safety of home. Last of all came the disarmament stage, when nobody could remember or be bothered to remember all those complicated patterns of punishment with all the subtle variations, and the whole thing ran out of steam.
But before that happened, life was dominated by the balance of terror. It’s winter and you’re on your own on your kick-sled, gliding over the tightly packed snow to the corner shop where you’re going to buy a bag of mixed candy. It’s mid-afternoon, but it’s already quite dark, and scattered snowflakes are drifting down from the endless lead-grey sky, sparkling under the street lamps like stars. You’re standing with one foot on the runner of your sled, clinging on to the handlebar and kicking with your other foot, skimming your way between the mountains of snow piled up on each side of the road by the plows. Your runners are being held back a bit by the newly fallen snow, and from the nearby main road to Kiruna you can hear the booming of a snow plow bludgeoning its way through the winter. And then, just ahead at the crossroads, one of the big boys materializes. The black silhouette of a pupil from the senior school. He comes toward you, you slow down and try to make out who it is. You consider turning back, but you seethere’s another big lad closing in from behind. Hard to make out who it is in the gloom, but he’s certainly big. You’re surrounded, a little boy on a kick-sled. All you can do is hope. Square your shoulders and advance toward the first of the big boys, who eyes you up and down. The street lamps are snowing, his face is in the shadows, and now he steps forward and your heart stands still. You try to prepare yourself for what’s coming, snow down the back of your neck and all down your back and into your trousers, your ears boxed so hard you can feel your skull coming loose, your woolly hat thrown up into a birch tree, sobs and snot and humiliation. You stiffen up like a calf as the slaughterer approaches. And now he’s right in front of you and you have to stop. He’s as big as an adult, but you don’t recognize him. He asks you whose boy you are, and you recall that there are at least three chain thrashings going on at the moment, your mind is working overtime, then you tell him who you claim to be, and hope you’ve hit upon the right answer. And the bloke puckers up his eyebrows and knocks your hat off into the snow. Then he says:
“Lucky for you!”
And you brush the snow off your hat, set off again, and wish to God you were a grown-up.
* * *
The end of winter was in sight, the worst of the cold was over. The days were still short, but in the lunch break you could occasionally catch a glimpse of the sun over the frosty rooftops, looking
That gives some idea of how things developed. The most elaborate of chain thrashings would involve classmates, neighbors, and an entire range of friends, especially if the two original combatants came from different parts of the village. In that case it was Vittulajänkkä versus Paskajänkkä, or Strandvägen versus Texas, and war was declared.
The duration of a chain thrashing could be anything from a few days to several months. The norm was a few weeks, following the pattern described above. The first stage was scuffling and an exchange of blows with little kids crying. Then came the threat stage, with the strongest ones involved roaming the village with their eyes peeled while the little kids stayed in hiding at home. If any of the little brats got caught, it was no laughing matter, believe you me. I used to think that was the worst stage, that non-stop terror between school and the relative safety of home. Last of all came the disarmament stage, when nobody could remember or be bothered to remember all those complicated patterns of punishment with all the subtle variations, and the whole thing ran out of steam.
But before that happened, life was dominated by the balance of terror. It’s winter and you’re on your own on your kick-sled, gliding over the tightly packed snow to the corner shop where you’re going to buy a bag of mixed candy. It’s mid-afternoon, but it’s already quite dark, and scattered snowflakes are drifting down from the endless lead-grey sky, sparkling under the street lamps like stars. You’re standing with one foot on the runner of your sled, clinging on to the handlebar and kicking with your other foot, skimming your way between the mountains of snow piled up on each side of the road by the plows. Your runners are being held back a bit by the newly fallen snow, and from the nearby main road to Kiruna you can hear the booming of a snow plow bludgeoning its way through the winter. And then, just ahead at the crossroads, one of the big boys materializes. The black silhouette of a pupil from the senior school. He comes toward you, you slow down and try to make out who it is. You consider turning back, but you seethere’s another big lad closing in from behind. Hard to make out who it is in the gloom, but he’s certainly big. You’re surrounded, a little boy on a kick-sled. All you can do is hope. Square your shoulders and advance toward the first of the big boys, who eyes you up and down. The street lamps are snowing, his face is in the shadows, and now he steps forward and your heart stands still. You try to prepare yourself for what’s coming, snow down the back of your neck and all down your back and into your trousers, your ears boxed so hard you can feel your skull coming loose, your woolly hat thrown up into a birch tree, sobs and snot and humiliation. You stiffen up like a calf as the slaughterer approaches. And now he’s right in front of you and you have to stop. He’s as big as an adult, but you don’t recognize him. He asks you whose boy you are, and you recall that there are at least three chain thrashings going on at the moment, your mind is working overtime, then you tell him who you claim to be, and hope you’ve hit upon the right answer. And the bloke puckers up his eyebrows and knocks your hat off into the snow. Then he says:
“Lucky for you!”
And you brush the snow off your hat, set off again, and wish to God you were a grown-up.
* * *
The end of winter was in sight, the worst of the cold was over. The days were still short, but in the lunch break you could occasionally catch a glimpse of the sun over the frosty rooftops, looking
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