was so much interest that even Mum and Dad were induced to turn up, despite the fact that they very rarely went to church at all apart from on Christmas Eve. In the pew in front of us were Niila and his parents and all his brothers and sisters. Just once he turned round and peered at me over the back of the pew, but was immediately prodded quite hard by Isak. The congregation included office workers and lumberjacks, and even a few Communists, all whispering amongst themselves. It was obvious what they were talking about. They were wondering if he’d turn out to be really black, pitch black, like the jazz musicians on record sleeves. Or would he just be a sort of coffee-brown?
There was a ringing of bells and the vestry door opened. Wilhelm Tawe emerged, looking a little bit on edge behind his black-framed spectacles. And there behind him. Also in vestments. A glittering African mantel, oh yes…
Pitch black! Whispers spread swiftly among the Sunday School mistresses. No trace of brown, more a sort of bluish black. Trotting alongside the African was an old deaconess who had been a missionary for many years, thin as a rake and with skin like tanned leather. The men bowed in the direction of the altar and the woman curtsied. Then Tawe got the service under way by bidding all present welcome, especially the guest who had travelled all the way from the war-stricken Congo. Christian parishes there were in crying need of material assistance, and today’s entire collection would be sent straight to the aid of our brothers and sisters in Africa.
Then the rituals commenced. But everybody just stared. They couldn’t take their eyes off him. When the hymn-singing started they heard his voice for the first time. He knew all the tunes, they seemed to have the same hymns in Africa. He sang in some native language or other, with a deep and somehow passionate voice, and the congregation sang softer and softer in order to listen to him. And when it was eventually time for the sermon, Tawe gave a sign. The unheard of happened. The black man and the deaconess both climbed the stairs into the pulpit.
There was widespread alarm – we were still in the sixties, and women were supposed to take a back seat and keep silent in the churches. Tawe explained that the lady’s role was to translate what our guest said. It was a little on the cramped side in the pulpit as she tried to establish herself alongside the imposing form of the newcomer. She was sweating profusely under her deaconess’s hat, took hold of the microphone and looked nervously round the congregation. The black man was calm and collected as he contemplated the worshippers before him, and he seemed even taller than he was, thanks to his high pointed hat, in blue and yellow. His face was so dark that all anybody could see was the glint in his eyes.
Then he started preaching. In Bantu. He ignored the microphone. He sort of shouted, loud and alluring, as if he were trying to contact somebody in the jungle.
‘I give thanks to the Lord, I thank the Lord my God,’ according to the deaconess’s translation.
Then she dropped the microphone, slumped forward moaning loudly and would have hurtled over the pulpit rail had it not been for the black man who grabbed hold of her and hung on.
The verger was the quickest of all to react. He raced forward, skipped up the stairs, folded the deaconess’s bony arm round his bull-like neck and levered her down into the aisle.
‘Malaria,’ she gasped. Her skin had turned deep yellow, and she was on the point of collapse. Several members of the church council hastened forward and helped to carry her out of church and into a car that sped off in the direction of the cottage hospital.
The rest of the congregation and the black man were still there. They were all somewhat confused. Tawe stepped forward to assert his authority, but the black man was still dominant in the pulpit. He’d travelled halfway across the globe, and so he ought to be able to cope with this. In the name of God.
He thought for a moment, then switched from Bantu to Swahili. Many millions speak Swahili, including many Africans up and down their continent. Unfortunately, not many people in Pajala are acquainted with it. He was confronted by a mass of blank faces. He changed language once again, and tried Creole. His dialect was so specialised that not even the local French teacher could work out what he was saying. He was getting a little heated, and tried a few sentences in Arabic. Then, in desperation, a couple of phrases in Flemish that he’d picked up while in Belgium on ecumenical business.
But contact was zero. Nobody could understand a word he said. In remote areas like this, you had to speak Swedish or Finnish.
He was desperate by now. Tried one final language. Bellowed it out so that it rebounded from the organ loft, roused an old lady from her slumbers, scared stiff a small child that burst out crying, and set the pages of the lectern Bible a-flutter.
Then Niila stood up in the row in front of me and answered him back.
A deathly silence descended on the whole church. Every single member of the congregation turned round and glared at this impertinent little brat. The black man focused on the little lad in the midst of the congregation before him, just as Niila was being given a good thump by Isak. The African gentleman raised his hand to indicate a halt to any such action. The palm of his hand was remarkably white. Isak felt the eyes boring into him, and let go of his son.
‘Ĉu vi komprenas kion mi diras?’ bellowed the black man.
‘Mi komprenas ĉion,’ replied Niila.
‘Venu ĉi tien, mia knabo. Venu ĉi tien al mi.’
Niila edged his way hesitantly along the pew and into the aisle. For a moment it looked as if he might run away. The African beckoned to him with the pale palm of his hand. All eyes were on Niila as he took a few trembling steps. Shoulders hunched, he tiptoed towards the pulpit, a bashful little boy with an awful haircut. The black man helped the slip of a lad up the stairs. Niila could barely manage to peer over the edge of the pulpit, but the African lifted him up in his strong arms. Held him like he would a little lamb. In a quaking voice, he resumed his sermon:
‘Dio nia, kiu aŭskultas niajn preĝojn…’
‘Oh Lord our God, who hears our prayers,’ said Niila without the slightest hesitation. ‘Today Thou hast sent unto us a boy. We thank Thee, oh Lord, we give unto Thee our thanks.’
Niila understood every word the black man said. The citizens of Pajala were thunderstruck, the boy translated the whole of the sermon as it was delivered. The faces of Niila’s parents and those of his brothers and sisters were etched with dismay, they sat in their pew like statues of stone. They were in shock, they realised they were witnessing a wondrous act of God. Many of the congregation burst into tears from sheer rapture, everyone was deeply moved. Whispers of jubilation spread throughout the chapel until the whole place was buzzing. The hand of God! A miracle!
As for me, I couldn’t understand what was happening. How had the black man learnt our secret language? For that was what they were speaking, him and Niila.
News of the incident spread rapidly, and not just in ecclesiastical circles. For a long time afterwards there were calls from newspapers and the television people, wanting to interview the lad, but Isak forbade it.
I didn’t see Niila again until several days later. He sneaked into our kitchen one afternoon, still looking staggered. Mum gave us each a sandwich and we sat there chewing. Niila occasionally pricked up his ears in that awkward way he had.
The radio was mumbling away in the background, as usual. I suddenly had a strange suspicion, and turned up the volume.
‘Ĝis reaŭdo!’
I
