To-day came a man and two women with a small child from the house where the child pox has become rife and where five people in this week have passed away, and implored that they might stay with us; for the poor souls did not know where else they should go. Four others, a man and three women with two small children of the same house, departed to some other place. And was this not the saddest of things, that by such escape they made unfortunate others wherever they came, which I would have prevented, though could not.
FROM HANS EGEDE’S JOURNAL, OCTOBER 1733
Backwards and forwards every single day, sometimes several times a day. Johan Hartman has become a messenger. He runs theological messages between Egede and the Moravian brethren at Neu Herrnhut. They have established their mission station in the long, flat valley at the southern end of the peninsula. The distance between the two communities is no more than half a fjerdingvej, a musket shot perhaps, and yet Johan pendulates as if between separate worlds. The colony is gripped by the blackest mood. At least eight of every ten Greenlanders has succumbed to the pox. It is as if time has been set back six years. The bodies are everywhere. No one has the strength to put them to their graves and the natives will not touch them. The Danish crew pile them up and cut the skin clothing from them, and there they lie, dappled by the frost, twisted and naked, with gaping mouths and exhausted eyes.
The settlements in the skerries and far up the fjord, teeming with people in the summer, are now deserted and abandoned. The peat-huts and tents are crammed with corpses, and the dead lie strewn about in the open air too. The ravens have a field day, stalking about with their stomachs full, barely able to take flight. Glutted foxes slink about with guilty expressions and swollen bellies.
The colony house too is packed with the sick. The dogged Egede family do what they can to assuage their sufferings. Madame Gertrud works tirelessly in their attendance with her two daughters. Yet no matter how many sick drag themselves to the house, as many dead are carried away.
Johan still lives with Sise in their little peat-hut north of the colony. They are alone and childless. The boy, Lauritz, Titia’s child who lived with them for a couple of years, travelled to Denmark three years ago and lives there now with foster-parents in whose care, according to a letter they have received in his own hand, he thrives: ‘Dear Father and Mother. This is your son Lauritz writing to you in good health and sending his best wishes from Denmark. It rains a lot here, and is cold and dark. I attend school and have learnt to write words on paper. My foster-father, the provost, says that I am to become a priest. Forever your faithful son, Lauritz Johanssøn.’ Johan has read the letter aloud for Sise many times, and each time she must grip her handkerchief and wipe the tears from her eyes.
No other child has been forthcoming. Johan has spoken to his wife about returning home, but Sise will hear none of it.
You can go, if you want.
And what will you do then?
Stay here.
Alone?
. . .
Do you wish to live all your days here in this land?
That’s my plan.
I miss home sometimes.
Your memory embellishes it. Copenhagen is one big gutter.
Yes, but cities are like that. There are lots of other delightful places in the country.
Is it a farm you’re wanting? Where would you get the money?
I’ve got family down near Hamburg. They would surely take us in.
I don’t want to live by the grace of your family. We’ve our own house here and are free.
Our own house is a hole in the ground. And free to do what?
Just free, that’s all, she says.
Free to grow old and die, he replies.
Yes, she says. What’s wrong with that?
He receives twenty rigsdaler per annum, enough by far to meet their needs, and the work is easy. Sometimes it pays to survive, to simply make sure not to die, and it is Sise he can thank for still being alive. But his salary is of course insufficient to allow for any savings. The winter brings paucities of one thing and another, grain and oats and treacle in particular, but they own a boat and catch birds and fish and hares, as well as gathering eggs. They have not gone hungry a single day since they arrived in the land, apart from that first chaotic winter.
She is good at preparing food and making the best of what they have. He has absolutely no reason to complain. Moreover, they are good enough friends and live a quiet life without saying much to each other. All there is to say has either been said already or else is unsayable. Sometimes he tries it on in the evenings, but always she stiffens or will dig an elbow in his chest.
Haven’t you forgotten something?
And then he must get up and fetch the five marks and drop the coins into the bowl with a clatter. Only then may he slide his erection in from behind and deliver his load.
Once a tart, always a tart, Sise says. It cannot be changed. And the money at least stays in the family.
Thus, their physical intercourse costs him some twenty to twenty-five marks a month. It could be worse, he thinks. She could put up the price to ten a go.
How he longs for Copenhagen, for the smell of horse muck in the streets, the teeming crowds, the noise, the very particular golden light which drenches the city in the spring, the flickering street lamps of winter, the watchmen singing the good old verses as the clock strikes the hour. To live here, in the world’s smallest and most northerly colony, for the rest of his life? He might just as well have died back in ’28. If only there had been children between them, at least then life would have had some measure of meaning. A little Hartman to play with and later take fishing. But the only child they had was stillborn, their foster-child is far across the sea, and now it seems that Sise is barren, most likely because of the birth. If she had died in labour, he thinks to himself, what would he have done then? Such freedom he would have enjoyed. Freedom to travel wherever he wished. To join a ship and sail away. But he pushes the thought from his mind. We have a good enough life here, he tells himself.
He comes to the valley at Neu Herrnhut. The build is to all intents and purposes finished and the Germans have moved in. He comes from wailing anguish to the industrious sound of hammers and rhythmically rasping saws. Moreover, they sing as they work, the Germans, belting out a kind of round, keeping the rhythm with their hammers as they intone the praises of the Lord, singing cheerily of his sufferings. But there are no sufferings here in the Moravians’ valley, only the joys of work and hymns, a vaulting blue sky and great vistas of the sea. Johan sits down and watches them. They call out to him, needing help to lug some rocks up from the shore, foundation stones for the goat shed they have begun to build. He forgets all about the letter he has with him from Egede and instead labours for them, fetching rocks, levelling the ground and laying the foundation. They use a kind of spirit level and spend much time making adjustments in order for the structure to be as straight and as stable as possible. They are good craftsmen, Johan thinks to himself. Germans. Compatriots. They do things properly.
They lay the first four timbers, a good day’s work. The next day he returns there again, and each day after that during the whole week, always with letters from Egede. The work progresses swiftly now. The structure is erected, a solid half-timbered building with fillings of unhewn stone, with a door and a window-opening, a roof covered by a layer of peat, and even a chimney and a fireplace inside. And when the goat shed is finished their leader, Christian David, leads them in a prayer of thanks, whereupon they kiss each other and weep. Johan too breaks down and weeps. It is a marvellous feeling. When finally he returns home he is full of jubilation, swinging Sise in the air and laughing until she turns sour and hits out at him with her ladle.
At the same time as the Germans erect their buildings, the old colony seems to sink back into the ground. The houses there, only a few years old, are already in decline and let in the weather. Undoubtedly it is the matter of a foundation, Johan thinks. If only there had been sufficient time to prepare good foundations, the rest of the structures would have been that much more stable. The crew house, in which more than fifty people died during the first year, has collapsed at one end, though remains in use, inhabited at the other, which as yet is intact. A floor has been laid too, and the house is otherwise a decent enough dwelling, albeit gloomy and damp.
The colony house by contrast remains splendid with all its many windows, the two fine wings and its battery of cannon. The cannon, of which two have been allowed to remain, have become silent and rust now in the rain, without a bombardier to fire them or even keep them in working order. The house itself is cold and draughty. Always there is some tradesmen crawling about on its roof, hammering nails in and making repairs with lengths of wood, sealing the window frames with putty, slapping mortar into the joints, but their tinkerings are but stop-gap measures of little lasting effect. And now the house, and the mission room within it, is full of sick natives who groan and wail. The folk have therefore retreated to the inferior crew house where they can be on their own.
He goes over the rocks, over the moor and descends to the colony. He finds Egede upstairs in the priest’s residence. It is impossible for him to be downstairs. The stench of the sick is excruciating even with the windows thrown open, and then there is the draught. And so he sits at his desk, his bare head supported in his hands, his pigtail at rest on his hunched back. He lifts his head as Johan comes up the stairs, and looks at him with strangely vacant eyes.
There’s a letter. From Mr David.
Egede grimaces and takes the folded sheet of paper Johan hands him, reading the letter immediately. He expels various sounds as he reads – ha! hmpf! tut, tut, no! – and shakes his head several times.
Mr David asks for his prompt reply. Am I to go with it right away?
Yes. Wait a minute. Sit down while I write.
He seats himself on the edge of a bed. Egede dips his pen and scratches down some words. The quill flutters across the page. He folds the letter and hands it to Johan.
Tell him it’s the last from me. I want no more of his blather.
All right, says Johan. I told him that yesterday too.
Let us hope he will soon desist with his nonsense.
Nonsense?
Pietistic Quatsch.
Is that what you want me to tell him?
No, say nothing. Just give him the letter. It’s all in there.
He opens it and reads it on the moor. It is written in German, his native tongue, but the writing is partly blotched and Egede’s spelling is a poor aid to understanding. He makes little of it, though sees that it begins with ‘Lieber Christian David. Gott sei mit Euch!’ He skims backwards and forwards. Three closely written pages in less than half an hour, full of references to the Scriptures, to Romans, the Acts of the Apostles, the Epistle to the Galatians, the Epistle to the Ephesians. His gaze stops at the words Augsburger Bekenntnis. He knows it well, and knows too how Egede harps on about it in his sermons and forces the poor natives to learn it by heart when they are to be baptized, and again when they are to be confirmed. He spells his way through a few sentences, his lips moving as he reads. Seemingly there is nothing about him. And why would there be? Yet he has always been inclined to believe that whenever anyone whispered to each other or wrote each other letters, they were conspiring against him. For the same reason, he reads Egede’s letter. But as usual it concerns nothing but theology, specifically some particular details of the Augsburg Confession. Nor is there anything about the catastrophe which has befallen the colony, not a word about the sick and the dead, which in spite of everything is even stranger than Egede not mentioning him. He jumps to the conclusion: ‘Since happily I know to spend my time more wisely than debating with someone so ignorant in the points of theology, I hereby conclude our correspondence. Your most faithful etc. Hans Egede.’
David receives him with a beaming smile and a heartfelt embrace in his warm parlour whose air smells of armpits and sweaty genitals. The fug of men. The two cousins come and kiss him on the cheek. They seem genuinely pleased to have him back. What do they see in me? he wonders, though he cannot help but be gladdened by his reception. David takes the letter, but puts it aside. He asks him how he is, how his wife is doing, and whether they remember to pray together and with fervour.
We say the Lord’s Prayer every evening and at every meal, he says.
The Lord’s Prayer is the essential prayer as given to us by the Saviour, the German says. It is our reminder to thank Him and praise Him and pray for our daily needs, demonstrating to Him thereby that we know that everything comes from Him. But it is not His intention for us to merely rattle it off. A prayer is a personal plea to the Lord. We stand before Him and speak to Him directly in His presence.
Oh, says Johan. I wouldn’t know what to say if I had to think it up myself.
You must say whatever occurs to you. You must be honest. Prayer is a space from which all lies and pretences are excluded.
Yes, indeed.
You can tell Him everything of which you are ashamed. Everything you have kept secret, your sorrows and concerns, your most malicious thoughts, everything, everything.
But doesn’t He know my thoughts already?
Of course! Therefore there is no reason to hide anything.
But why must I say such things if He already knows everything?
Because the power of prayer is great indeed. In prayer we stand before the Lord and empty our hearts. There is nothing better in this life, no greater liberation.
Can a person pray for any reason?
Naturally. There is nothing we cannot pray for. But our prayers must be genuine, we must humble ourselves before the Lord in prayer. Now, return home and pray to Him in the way I have described, and let the priest and the other Pharisees rattle off their Lord’s Prayer.
He returns home. He tries to pray the way the German has instructed. But he finds it difficult. It is as if his words become empty, as if somehow they beget their own lies and pretences. Dear God, he prays. I am a sinner. Please let Sise be kinder to me. Make her turn towards me in the evenings.
He tries it on with her when they go to bed that night. But she shoves him away in annoyance with her elbow. He gets the money and drops the coins in the bowl. She sticks her behind out, allowing him at least to relieve his desire.
Teach me to pray, he asks David the next day. The correspondence between Egede and the German continues in spite of what Egede put in his last letter.
All right, says David. I will teach you.
I find it difficult, Johan says.
Indeed. But you have tried. And you must not believe that the Lord has not heard you. For indeed He has.
It just feels like words.
Yes, we must shorten the distance between words and emotions, so that they become one and the same.
How is that done?
Sit down here with us, says David. Let us speak together. Do you love Jesus?
Well, I suppose so. I can’t really say I know Him that well.
Good, my child. That was an honest answer. The Lord loves you for such an answer. Do you believe He suffered for our sakes?
I suppose so. I mean, that’s what it says, isn’t it?
Oh, how reserved you are! You are in serious need of conversion, my child. Think of Jesus hanging there on the cross. His hands are penetrated by nails, and these nails bear the entire weight of His body. Imagine that! The spike tearing at your flesh, the merciless baking sun, the mob taunting you. You know you are going to die, but it takes such a very long time, for they wish to torment you first. You are thirsty and they give you vinegar. In your agony you call for your father, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? And they jab you with their spears until your blood flows. That was what it was like. Do you believe He endured it all for our sakes?
The German’s voice is a tremble, and Johan senses his own jaw tighten, a lump appearing in his throat. He emits a tiny sob and clears his throat.
Yes, he says in a thick voice. I believe so.
And do you believe that the only way to salvation is through suffering?
The two cousins are now quietly weeping. It sounds like they are humming. Their faces are contorted and they lean forwards, their tears falling to the floor.
Yes, I believe it, he sniffles. I think about what’s happening over in the colony. All that sickness and death. So much suffering. They must be very close to salvation.
They are suffering, but not in the right way, says David.
Are they not?
Proper suffering is to suffer with the Lord. The heathens who are dying, they who flock around the priest’s house and are tended by the Madame, have been led astray. That is why they suffer. They are herded into the abyss like ignorant sheep. Their sufferings are but preparation for the anguish they will encounter when they die. I am sure you know what I am talking about?
Hell?
Yes, the Inferno. David beams a smile. There they will burn, yet they will never burn up. Imagine that. To burn for ever! And who will be there with them, do you think?
I don’t know. The former governor? He was a sinner if ever there was one.
David shakes his head. The governor may repent his sins. But there is one who cannot. He bears a black cassock. The priest!
Will Egede go to Hell? Johan blurts in astonishment.
Indeed he will. Together with his rabble of a family. They are unconverted, cold-blooded teachers of false doctrine, hypocrites. Every time they say the Lord’s Prayer is a stab of pain in the heart of the Saviour. The Inferno is but the mildest of punishments for their sort. Their suffering will be eternal. But the other suffering, with Jesus Christ the Lord, will lead to salvation. Look at him, hanging there on the cross, bleeding, dying. Can you see him? The German points at a picture on the wall. Do you see the way he suffers?
Yes, says Johan, his voice small and trembling. But he was God’s son, wasn’t he? Could he not endure it?
He was born of man, with a man’s weaknesses, his doubts and pains and fears, and therefore he suffered as a man. Look at this.
The German rolls up his sleeve. He is clearly worked up. His lower arm is criss-crossed with scars. He holds out his upturned hand. In the centre of his palm is a star-shaped white scar.
What is this? Johan asks. Did you injure yourself?
It is the wound of Christ. My mark. This is what we do, some of us. It is voluntary, without coercion, but the Count looks kindly upon those who inflict pain upon themselves in gratitude to the Lord.
What count?
Our good and loving leader, Count von Zinzendorf. I bade some of my brethren do this to me, he says proudly. They tied my hand tightly and hammered through it a nail. Look. He turns his hand over and displays the scar on the other side where the nail went clean through.
Jesus, Johan blurts. Did it not hurt?
Yes, of course. The wound became infected. The hand is still stiff.
But why did you do it?
So as to suffer with Him. But this is not the way of the priest. He knows nothing of suffering, nor does he wish to. Therefore he cannot be saved. Tell me, how old are you, my child?
Thirty, Johan replies.
Oh, you are young indeed. You are not lost. I sense you are a seeker. I feel a sorrow in you too, a pain. Am I right? the German asks with a smile.
Well, yes . . . I suppose. Life has its . . . is a person ever free . . . oh!
He breaks down sobbing. The German embraces him. He hears the two cousins come closer.
Tell me everything, David instructs.
What shall I tell?
How did you come to this land?
Well, he sniffles. I’m not quite sure to be honest. Someone decided it. I was an inmate of the gaol at Bremerholm. Deserted from duty. But then lots were drawn that meant I got married to Sise, my wife. We were sweethearts already, so I suppose it was a stroke of luck. Only then they sent us up here.
A lottery! The German lights up in a smile. I too came here because my lot was drawn. It is our way whenever missionaries are to be sent out from Herrnhut. This is a sign from the Lord, my child. A lot with your name on it is akin to being appointed by the Lord. The German kisses him on the cheek and brow.
Do you know that Jesus loves you? Now it is one of the cousins who speaks.
Do you know that Jesus suffered and died for your sake? the other one asks.
Think about it, dear child, says David. Think about the sufferings of the Lord.
Think about His wounds.
His bleeding wounds.
Those seeping wounds.
Kiss His seeping wounds!
Kiss them!
Lick them!
Lick the blood!
Lick the pus that seeps from the wound.
Feel His pain.
Hear His screams.
But what does He do? Does He curse his tormentors?
Does He command them to Hell?
No, He does not. What does He do?
He says, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
And He says, verily I say unto you, today you shall be with me in Paradise!
Who does He say this to?
To the trespasser!
The offender!
The murderer!
He promised the murderer eternal life.
Is it not unfathomable!
Is it not wonderful!
You too are a trespasser, my child.
You are a sinner.
You are an offender.
Yes, he squeaks.
But not only you. You must not think as such.
We are all of us offenders.
We are swine.
We are worms who crawl upon the earth and deserve to be crushed under His heel.
But what does Christ do?
He lifts us up.
He forgives us and blesses us and takes us by the hand and leads us into heavenly bliss.
But do you think He does the same for the priest?
No, the priest He ignores.
The priest is left behind with his hat in his hand.
The priest is condemned.
He feels the flames of Hell already.
He hears the Devil call.
Komm, Pfarrer Egede, komm zu mir, is what he says.
But you He takes by the hand.
For he who lifts himself up shall be put down, and he who makes himself humble shall be lifted up, as the Scripture says.
That other one, the priest, he shall be thrown into the snake pit.
To the serpents.
And the snakes will twist and writhe and sate themselves on all the wretched priests He has cast down to them.
Snake-fodder!
That is what he is. Snake-fodder!
But they will not eat him up.
For in Hell one cannot die.
Hell is the eternal life of which the priest he speaks.
But he knows it not himself.
He thinks he is going to Heaven.
What a surprise he has in store!
David is standing right up close to him now, slobbering and gripping him tightly by the shoulders, shrieking into his face, showering him with spittle. Johan feels paralysed, yet pleasantly so. He finds this vociferous assault oddly liberating, the sobs and weeping, this raw reek of genitals and steaming armpits. The German’s face is flaming and wettened by sweat and tears. He seems like a person on the brink of losing control of himself, though strangely it is a loss of control which in itself appears controlled. What will happen now? Johan wonders. What will he do? Is it but theatre? He looks askance at the two cousins, who flank him and the German and have now put away their pipes, as if in readiness to catch the two men should they fall, or else to step between them if fists should fly. Perhaps they will assault me, he thinks. Perhaps they will be violent with me, violate me and do unmentionable things. Perhaps it is what I want?
I ask you now, David then says, seemingly pulling himself together, I ask you now to confess your sins.
I’ve confessed my sins to the priest, he replies.
Have you indeed? David’s voice oozes sarcasm. Then I suppose everything is in the finest order. Did the priest confess his own sins to you?
No, I can’t say he did. It doesn’t interest me what the priest gets up to.
Indeed, such are the ways of your kind. You care not what the other man does. You are complacent. Each to his own. But this is not our way. We lower ourselves for each other, we humble ourselves in each other’s gaze, we kneel down that we may be kicked in the arse, but would your priest ever do such a thing, do you think?
I shouldn’t think so.
Then confess your sins, my child, and brace yourself for what happens next!
He hesitates. Where to begin? Well, I have indulged in fornication.
Hallelujah, he has indulged in fornication!
The two cousins chorus: Hallelujah!
What else. Come on, out with it. The worst you’ve got.
I took the Lord’s name in vain? he ventures unimaginatively.
Urgh, that’s priests’ talk. We won’t hear of it. We want the shameful stuff. True guilt. We wish to revel in filth. Come on, my child.
He racks his brains. What on earth can he say to satisfy the man? I have sold my wife to lecherous men for a pittance, he then puts forward.
Hallelujah! What else?
I have paid her myself in order for her to lie with me, for otherwise she will not.
The Germans are jubilant. Praise be the name of the Lord! David roars with laughter now. We’ll drag a lot more filth out of you later, he says. But now it is my turn. I have lusted for my mother’s breasts. I have kissed them and even liked it.
More rejoicings from the cousins.
Was it when you were a small boy? Johan asks.
No, I was a full-grown man. I tore the neck of her dress aside and licked her nipples. I lured her into fornicating with her own son. Oh, I remember it like it was yesterday. They were very dark, and wrinkled as prunes. And she pulled me to her bosom and moaned with delight and ground her hips against mine.
Transports of delight, deafening hallelujahs.
But wait, says David, and holds up his hand. There’s more. I’m not finished yet. I have fornicated with my own sister whilst our father watched us!
He looks at Johan and the two Germans with a proud and boyish smile, and the cousins respond with howls of enthusiasm.
Well, I must say, says Johan. That certainly is what I’d call filth. Worse than making a whore of one’s own wife, I think.
Oh, much worse. Much, much worse! I’ve never told anyone that before. In fact, I only remembered it now. But such is the act of confession, if only one is genuine of heart.
Abruptly, the German bursts out sobbing, causing Johan to jump. He has a strange way of crying. It sounds like he is forcing it out with all his might. His eyes bulge and the muscles of his face look like they have taken on a life of their own. He stamps on the floor with one foot. Eventually he gets down on all fours, weeping and sobbing still, his backside jutting into the air. He looks over his shoulder and his eyes find the two cousins. I am ready for my punishment, he sobs. Spare me not!
The two men step forward heavily. It seems they know what to do. One takes off his belt and begins to lash the wretched David, roaring at the top of his voice: Sinner! Sinner! The other proceeds to kick his behind with the toe of his boot. It is no sham, David’s cries of pain no comedy act. He farts loudly and begs for mercy. Eventually they stop and David staggers to his feet, his face wet with tears, his crying unabated. He sits down at the table, buries his face in his hands and weeps heart-wrenchingly. The cousins sit down and re-light their pipes as if nothing had happened.
Am I to be punished too? Johan asks.
The cousins shake their heads. Not today, one of them says. Today we want only to show you what happens. We’ll punish you hard next time, the other one says, and both of them smile. But punishment must of course be voluntary. One must love one’s punishment, and yearn for it.
David shows him out. I give you no letter to take back this time, he says. I fear Egede and I have exhausted each other. He will not be converted. I do not judge him for it. Send him my regards and wish him well.
I will.
And bring your wife next time.
Ah, he says. I’m not sure if she’d care for it.
Bring her anyway.
He walks back to the colony in darkness. A gentle snow descends, and the air is still. Snow falling in a straight line, a rare sight.
Egede sits where he left him several hours before, at his desk upstairs.
Have you no letter for me? he asks with a look of disappointment.
I am to give you David’s regards and wish you well.
Egede grimaces with annoyance. Do not let those deranged brethren muddle your thoughts. They are not in possession of their full faculties.
In the evening he prays: Lord Jesus Christ, my Saviour, you who knows my heart, listen to me now. I am not a good man. I do not love Sise the way I’m supposed to, my desire is purely selfish, for it thinks only of its own satisfaction. Show me how I can love my wife, dear Jesus, for I wish to be a better person, and I wish to begin with Sise, because I owe her, and then I can be good to others later. Amen.
Sise turns to him in the bed. What’s that you’re muttering about?
I’m praying to Jesus.
What for?
That he might make me a better person. The Germans taught me how to pray. The Lord’s Prayer is no good. It’s only a template to show what a prayer might contain.
You’re over there a lot these days.
Yes. I’ve been talking to them all day today. They want you to come with me next time.
Sise accompanies him to Neu Herrnhut a couple of days later. The parlour has been aired and cleaned. They eat a meal of fish. There is no confession, no punishment, but David tells them about their mission and their pietist faith. He says that von Zinzendorf believes all men to be equal before Christ, rich and poor alike, nobility and rabble, free men and inmates, native Greenlanders and the blackest savages of Africa, women as well as men, and that everyone has the same right to hear the good word. He tells them of something he saw in a dream, that the whole valley of Neu Herrnhut was filled with tents and Greenlanders by the hundreds who had come to be baptized. If we believe in Jesus and are upstanding in our faith, he will bless our work, he says.
Sise is susceptible to the pietistic message. She weeps with the brethren, and laughs with them too. David offers to teach her to read and write, and after only a few weeks she is able to pen a whole letter to her family in Denmark. She is happier than Johan remembers her ever having been before. And most importantly: she has begun to turn towards him in their bed, and when for the first time he is allowed to fondle and kiss her breasts without prior payment, it is him who weeps and laughs.
When spring comes, Sise and Johan move in with the Germans, and are the first to join the Moravians in their faith. They build a new house, half peat, half timber, and with the help of the skilled Germans their new home is infinitely better than the old one. They are nervous as to what Egede will say, whether he will become incensed and punish them by withholding Johan’s salary. But Egede says and does nothing. Egede has other matters to which he must attend. It is by no means certain he has even noticed they are gone.