| Ăŕđîëüä Ęîííîëëč Harold Connolly | |
| Ďîĺçäęŕ çŕ Îëčěďčéńęčě Çîëîňîě The Journey for Olympic Gold ăëŕâű 24 | |
Chapter Twenty-four
As the DC-6 taxied towards
the terminal of the Finnish capital’s Seutula Airport, I
looked curiously out of
the window. “Look at those guys, Bob. They look like prisoners
from a comic strip.” At
the far end of the runway a large group of men dressed in
identical black and white
striped suits was working with wheelbarrows and shovels.
“They’re prisoners.” Bob
said.
As we stood in line to go
through customs, Bob related what he had been told
when he first visited
Finland: Most of the prisoners were working off three months’
sentences for drunk
driving. For this offense Finland did not recognize any bail or
alleviating circumstances.
Anybody driving who was even suspected of having
consumed alcohol was
immediately apprehended and taken for a blood test. A positive
finding meant an
irrevocable conviction to hard labor, building and repairing the airport’s
runways. That the
construction went along rather sluggishly was not the Finnish jurists’
main concern. Once the
director of a large tractor company, after being convicted,
offered to provide several
large earth moving machines instead of his unseasoned hands,
but the judge vetoed the
offer.
After the forty-minute bus
ride into Helsinki, Bob insisted that the building of the
Finnish Athletic
Federation was located within walking distance of the bus terminal, but
he could not remember
where. His orientation recollection led us to Helsinki’s main
street, Mannerheimkatu,
where Bob attempted and failed to extricate further directions
from a pokerfaced lady in
an ice-cream kiosk. Optimistically, he approached a traffic
policeman rigidly
stationed on the street corner gazing at the passing cars.
“Olka huva misa on Suoumen
Urhelito?”
Bob exercised his “Olympic” Finnish.”
“Mita?”
said the policeman staring
at us blankly.
“Suoumen Urhelito, olka
huva misa on?”
Bob insisted.
The policeman ever so
noticeably shook his head. I figured we were wasting time.
“Forget it, Bob. He
doesn’t understand you.”
On hearing my impatient
words, to my shock, the policeman’s eyes brightened
and he smiled. “You speak
English. What are you looking for?” he asked.
“The Finnish Athletic
Federation.” I said and hastily produced an apologetic
smile.
The policeman was helpful.
He crossed the street with us and pointed forward.
“Walk about two hundred
meters, past the next two blocks of houses, then turn right up a
short hill and right
again. Look for this inscription.” He tore a page out of his notebook
and wrote: ‘’SUOMEN
URHEILULIITTO.” We thanked him; he saluted, turned back
into stone and continued
his traffic watch.
A lady at the information
booth of the federation office who fortunately spoke
English, said that the
Secretary of Track and Field was in a meeting, but that she believed
they were done by now. She
instructed us to go upstairs and knock on the first door to
our left.
We did as she said and
somebody inside called out: “Sisaan.”
“That means, come in,”
translated Bob.
We entered a long room
where three men sat at a conference table covered with
diagrams and papers. The
one nearest us looked up briefly and asked something in
Finnish.
“Good Afternoon,” said
Bob. “Excuse us for disturbing you. Do you speak
English?”
“Yes, I do. How can I help
you?” The sun-tanned, dark eyed man with a
strikingly intelligent
face slowly detached his attention from his papers and got up. The
other two glanced at us,
then, without any expression of curiosity, returned to their work.
We introduced ourselves
and explained we were Americans who had come to
Europe to learn about the
hammer throw.
“Very interesting. We’ll
see what we can do for you. By the way, I’m Armas
Valste, the National
coach. Let me introduce you to our federation leaders.” He said
something to his
colleagues, who unhurriedly left their chairs. An austere dignity settled
over the three Finns, as
they got ready for the round of introductions.
“This is Herra Helge
Lehmusvuori, the Secretary of our Track and Field
Federation.”
“Bob Backus.” Bob said,
and received from the robust blond man two brisk
handshakes.
“I’m Hal Connolly.” I got
the same two hard pumps of my right hand.
“This gentleman is Herra
Kalevi Kotkas, one of our top chiefs.”
The second introduction
also was followed by identical double pumping
handshake with each of us.
Eyes were fixed on eyes, all in solemn silence.
“And, as I said before,
I’m Armas Valste -- welcome to Finland.”
The head coach extended
his arm for another two sets of solid handshakes. The
convention satisfied, the
officials invited us to sit down.
“How long have you been in
Finland?” inquired the Secretary.
“Actually only about two
hours. Our bags are in your corridor,” said Bob with
some uneasiness.
The Finnish leaders looked
at one another. Mr. Lehmusvuori spoke again. “Who
is sponsoring you? Have
you a letter from your Amateur Athletic Union or whoever sent
you to Finland?”
“Nobody sent us - we paid
our own way,” I explained.
“That’s right, and we’d
like to stay in Finland for a few weeks,” added Bob, “if
we can find an inexpensive
place to stay and be invited to some hammer competitions.”
Secretary Lehmusvuori and
the coach talked to Mr. Kotkas, a man who had an
open alert face and was
nearly as tall as Backus. Until then he had not contributed to the
conversation more than a
couple of restrained smiles. Now he spoke rapidly in Finnish to
his colleagues and nodded
in apparent approval.
“We discussed your
situation,” announced Mr. Lehmusvuori, “and we want to
know if you would find it
satisfactory to be housed outside the city. The Olympic
Village has been converted
into dormitories for the Finnish Institute of Technology, but
during the summer, when
classes are not in session, we sometimes use its facilities for
our athletes. Out there
you would not be charged for your rooms, and I will give you
coupons with which to pay
for your meals in the school’s cafeteria.” We agreed
enthusiastically to the
proposal.
The former Village from
the 1952 Olympic Games was located only twenty
minutes from the city by
bus in a suburb called Otaniemi. The conglomerate of four
story, brick buildings was
situated in a beautiful natural wooded setting next to a
glistening body of water
called Laajalahti, an extension of the Baltic’s Finnish Bay. An
outdoor track with a
hammer throwing area and a huge indoor dirt floor field house, a
gymnasium, and weight
training facility made the site an ideal training place. Bob was
overjoyed to return to his
stomping grounds from the 1952 Games.
Less than a hundred yards
up a forest path from the long modern wood and glass
structured cafeteria
building, which was the center of the entire development, stood a
recently built wooden
chapel. Inside the small structure directly behind a simple altar,
the entire front wall was
made of glass, through which the congregation viewed a tall,
slender, serene, cross
that was made of the finest unpainted Finnish birch. It was erected
outside in a small
clearing on a bed of fresh green grass surrounded by majestic Finnish
pines, whose branches,
reaching like Earth’s messengers to Haven, communicated
naturally with the billowy
white clouds and azure skies above. In the Technical
University’s chapel I was
confronted for the first time with the masterful accomplishment
of Finnish architecture,
the skillful, unpretentious amalgamation of the ageless spiritual
beauty of nature,
religious reverence, and modern civilization.
Our Finnish hosts puzzled
me. They were friendly and polite, but never initiated
a discussion about
anything we had not brought up first. Their faces could compete with
the inscrutable
expressions of the Japanese, except that northern sternness substituted
for
the semi-apologetic
oriental smile. I felt that they were constantly estimating us, but
never disclosing what they
really thought. They never asked about my crippled arm. I
had the impression that
our hosts were anxious not to intrude on our privacy, but also
jealously preserved their
own. Later I was told that the Finns were slow and wary in
developing close ties with
strangers. Perhaps they learned to be suspicious throughout
long history of forced
subservience to Swedish and Russian domination, to which they
had so often to compromise
between their passionate ethnic identification and survival. I
became certain that the
balance between their national pride and the concern with selfpreservation
was precarious, and that
it might take but one push too hard and the Finns
would take death before
submission. I got the strong impression that a Finn never forgets
being really hurt.
Mr. Lehmusvuori gave us a
list of upcoming competitions from which to choose,
and afterwards he
contacted the promoters to arrange for our expenses and board. Bob
and I were astounded by
their generous hospitality.
The following Sunday
afternoon in late August, 1954, a month swelteringly hot in
Boston, I stood in a
scrupulously neat yard in front of a white wooden house with azalea
trimmed windows. It was
the home of the president of the athletic club in Ii, a Finnish
town about the size of its
name. Ii lay close to the Polar Circle, where during the summer
months the sun never fully
disappeared and where the proportions of the twenty-three
hour long day
incongruously clashed with my concepts, which had been formed from
living in Boston on the
forty-second parallel.
After our first Finnish
competition, the previous day in the nearby paper mill
village of Haukipudas,
where Bob won and I finished second, we met the club leaders
from Ii, who invited us to
stay over for the big Ii dance the following day. That evening
they brought us to their
town and welcomed us with a small reception: It seemed as if the
party had hardly begun
when our Finnish hosts began to yawn and say “Good Night.” I
was startled when I looked
at my watch and found it was past midnight. At one thirty in
the morning, from the
window of my room I gazed out at the illogical scene: All the
aspects of nightfall
hovered over the rural surroundings, stillness was everywhere, and
not a living creature was
in sight under the glaring light. It was hard to imagine that in a
few more months Ii would
soon be enveloped in total winter darkness and yearn for the
brightness that would not
return until the spring.
Now, as I waited outside
the house for Bob to finish dressing for the dance, I was
amazed that it could be so
chilly under a clear blue, sunny sky. I checked my watch to
assure myself that it was
already almost eight in the evening, and then buried my hands
deeper into the pockets of
my topcoat.
After Bob and the club’s
president emerged, it took only a few minutes to reach
the open-air dance
pavilion, where, after introductions to a few more club members, we
were left on our own. The
dance pavilion was built to stand up to the rigors of the
climate. Its birch floor
was tightly put together and immaculately scrubbed; an umbrella
shaped wooden roof
supported by beams protected it from rain. Through a large opening
in the railing encircling
the dance floor, two steps led down onto a cushion of millions of
pine needles, which
carpeted the ground of the surrounding forest clearing.
From out of the dense
woods and shrubbery, small groups of shyly whispering
girls, holding hands,
gradually appeared and converged into an island of soft colored,
perfectly ironed, light
cotton dresses. Four musicians sat motionlessly on a bandstand at
the far end of the dance
floor. Right beside them, behind a small counter, a round faced,
pink cheeked, prim middle
aged lady dressed in a broad white apron and a scarf binding
her hair, dispensed soft
drinks and oluta, non-alcoholic beer, for sale. Young, straight
haired men in dark suits
and ties were arriving slowly and surrounding the drink stand.
Bob and I were the only
ones in topcoats.
For a long time the two
huddles at the opposite sides of the pavilion remained
anchored apart while
engaging in hushed conversations. Even the quartet of musicians
sat stock-still.
“This place is about as
swinging as a mobile X-ray unit?” I said to Bob.
“I don’t know. It sure is
quiet here.”
After deliberating a
moment Bob asked, “I wonder if we’re holding up the
festivities?”
I realized that while
everybody else congregated in the appropriate corners, we
were standing in the no
man’s land between the boys and girls. “Do you think we better
move and maybe take off
out coats?” I said uncertainly.
“I guess we should.” We
walked over near the drink stand, where Bob draped his
coat over the wooden
railing; but unable to ignore the frosty moisture that was settling on
the nearby foliage, I
decided to keep mine on. It also better concealed my left arm. Coat
on or coat off, it
obviously made no difference. Everyone stared at us, and some of the
girls giggled. Obviously,
we were the funniest guys in town anyway.
The musicians struck up
their instruments, but it took quite a while before the
young men thoroughly
established that the band had begun with the familiar two-four of
a tango, and started their
insecure formal progress towards the nervously hushed, drawn
together cluster of young
women. They moved unhurriedly, gravely intent on the
immediate task. Not until
the middle of the first tune had everyone selected his partner.
After about four songs,
divided by only brief stops, came a longer pause during which the
couples split and migrated
back to their strictly male and female ends of the dance floor.
Bob and I, intrigued by
the prevailing formalities, stood out the first two sets.
Meanwhile, the rigidness
of the affair rapidly loosened. It became obvious that as some
girls buoyed into greater
desirability than others, not much time could be wasted with
unyielding conventions.
The young men began to spend the pauses between dance sets in
avid alert for the first
note of music which set them off across the floor toward the prime
targets at a pace that
kept increasing until it reached an ultimate speed worthy of a dash at
an indoor track meet. At
this stage, and with great delight, we added to the Finnish social
a bit of American rivalry.
Bob had his eye on a tall,
striking brunette, who had only just arrived with her
girlfriends. Realizing she
would be an immediate target, Bob moved across the floor
quickly before all the
Finnish boys spotted her. “Come and get yourself a partner,” he
called after me.
Huddling in the group
around the brunette was a slender, also tall girl, whose
blond, shoulder length
hair partially concealed her face. In a short sleeved, light blue
cotton dress, she stood,
head shyly bowed looking at the floor as Bob advanced on her
friend. Despite the
evening brightness, I wondered how she and all the other girls were
seemingly impervious to
the growing night chill.
I knew I also had to make
a move, or I would look conspicuously foolish standing
with everyone soon dancing
around me. I took off after Bob, hoping I wouldn’t
experience the sting of
embarrassment when I asked the blond girl to dance and took her
hand in mine. As I stood
in front of her, with Bob already out on the floor dancing, she
looked up at me. Her eyes
as soft blue as the northern lighted blue sky above us; she was
little more than a child
in a deceivingly mature body. She looked up at me in silent
anticipation. Wondering if
she would even understand me I said, “May I dance with
you?”
Gently nodding her head,
she extended her hand. I knew she immediately sensed
there was something wrong
with my arm. She said nothing just gently took my feeble
left hand in hers and we
were dancing. The relief I felt was like traversing a great chasm.
Embarrassment minimal. We
were dancing! It was beautiful! She was beautiful! The
pristine fragrance of her
fine golden hair and the green pines and birch trees surrounding
us filled my senses. Irja
Huhta reluctantly confessed that she was nearly 15. Her English,
while slow and deliberate
was surprisingly good for a girl who had always lived above
the Polar Circle.
Later as we sat at a
picnic table away from the dance floor, she related how her
family in 1946 was part of
the great Karailian migration of nearly the entire population of
400,000, who picked up the
belongings they could carry and walked out of Finnish
Karalia into what remained
of Finland rather than live under Russian domination. Many
left place settings on
their tables and coffee pots on their stoves; they had left so abruptly
to join their countrymen
in the west. It speaks to the Finnish character, compassion and
resilience, that all of
their displaced brothers, sisters and families were eagerly embraced
into the remaining free
Finnish communities across the treaty demarcation border.
In the peaceful solitude
of the land of the midnight sun, under an azure sky filled
with majestic white
clouds, Irja taught me
kaunis pilvi
, to my
comment about the
beautiful white clouds.
Our conversation consisted primarily of exchanging information
about each other’s
families and expanding my Finnish vocabulary to words I will never
forget, like
vithrea puita,
green trees, beautiful words indelibly impressed on my
memory. She also called me
Heikki, my name in Finnish.
We danced again and she
told me how proud she felt to be dancing with one of
the Americans. She said,
“All the girls wondered who the Americans would choose to
dance with.” The word had
evidently spread over night in the little community that two
American athletes had been
invited to the dance.
We danced and talked,
danced and talked until the last set was played. This
beautiful, bright,
unbelievably mature, young girl entranced me. I couldn’t believe she
was so young. Inexplicably
her soft lips and melodious Finnish words, explained with
eager smiling radiance,
made my heart soar. As the musicians placed their instruments in
their cases, Irja said,
“Oh, my friends are leaving. I must go home now.” We exchanged
addresses. I took her
hand, looked deeply into those shy, blue eyes and promised I would
write her from Germany and
when I got home. Then with her friends, she vanished down
a path into the thick
woods as she had come. I wondered if I would ever see this
captivating beauty again.
The morning before the day
of our departure from Finland, Bob and I took the bus
from Otanieme to Helsinki
in order to thank our hosts. Later, in the Suomen Urheiluliitto
Building, I discovered I
had lost my passport and wallet with the little that was left of my
two hundred dollars.
“My wallet and passport
our gone! I’ve got to call the Embassy and contact the
police. I’ll have to cable
home for more money!” I was greatly upset.
“Calm down, Harold,” Mr.
Lehmusvuori said. “ They may be easily found.”
Think, where and when did
you have them last?”
I could remember only
buying the bus ticket.
“All right, let’s start
with a call to the bus depot.”
The clerk at the terminal
had not heard about anybody finding a wallet or
passport, and he advised
us to wait until all the buses returned, but I was sure that my
money was gone forever.
Only faintly I hoped that someone might return my empty
wallet and passport. At
the end of the day an official from the bus depot phoned for me
to come to identify my
property. A passenger had found my passport and wallet in the
back seat of a bus and
gave them to a driver. Not a dollar was missing nor a paper moved
in my wallet. I was told
that both men had refused to leave their names to be considered
for a reward. The
unassuming warm hospitality of the Finns gave our parting with their
country a definite feeling
of appreciative nostalgia.
Copyright © 1999-2002 Harold Connolly |
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