Free Somewhere Over the Sea by Halfdan Freihow Page A

it necessary; but they have a kind of built-in understanding of where your limits are, of what you’re able to accept and tolerate, of what happens when you suddenly turn very Gabriel, and of what they then ought to do and definitely not do. Perhaps part of the explanation is that from the very beginning we’ve tried to be open with both them and their parents by giving, among other things, explanatory talks about you at parents’ meetings and class gatherings. But most of all it’s just blessed good luck: you’ve been lucky enough to end up among children who probably don’t always understand you and perhaps don’t even always like you, but who nevertheless, or perhaps for that very reason, wish you well.
    I never saw this more clearly than on National Day. Like most of the other festive holidays children look forward to, May 17 isn’t a good day for you. The expectations are so immense and diffuse that they can’t possibly be met, the level of noise so high, the crowd so great, the impressions so manifold. You lose track of things, and the ability to concentrate, you become confused and that makes you dispirited. And yet each year we try, because we’d so much like for you to feel included.
    This time you have, uneventfully, but also with no apparent pleasure or understanding of the point of it, marched in the morning procession and carried the flag from school to church. Afterwards we’ve been to town and bought a cap gun, ice cream, and a sausage roll. Now we’re going to school, where there will be speeches and games and competitions. You and your schoolmates have shot your way through most of your ammunition, and because everybody else is, you too want to take part in the race on the sports field. The event is organized by classes, and prospects of huge gold medals are held out to the winners. One of those, you say, you’ve just got to have, and you decide, as though it were a matter of pure will, to win.
    I stand behind you on the starting line, and with a lump in my stomach, explain that you mustn’t begin to run before you hear “Ready, Steady” — and then the starting gun. Great doses of adrenalin and excitement are pumping through you, but you confirm that you’ve understood.
    â€” Ready . . . Steady . . .
    The crack comes so suddenly and unexpectedly that you need a moment to compose yourself. But you feel the thrust of my hand on your back, hear the cheering from the sidelines, and see that the others are off. You stride out, you run like you’ve never run before, narrow-eyed and determined. You run to win, to get that medal, to show them, and then . . . you look around and see that you’re all alone, that there’s just you and the gravel field, that way ahead the others are already crossing the finishing line, and you realize that you’ve lost.
    A terrible no ! explodes from your throat, and you collapse into a fetal position in the middle of that sea of gravel and weep convulsively. A moment later I’m there, sitting with you and holding you tight against my chest, not knowing what to say or do. An awkward silence descends upon the field; people look over at one another and out at us.
    Then they’re there, your classmates, all of them, swarming round you. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.
    â€” You were great, Gabriel!
    â€” You did it, Gabriel!
    â€” What a good runner you are, Gabriel!
    You raise tearful, disbelieving eyes to look at them, and the trace of a crooked smile appears on your face.
    â€” Come on, Gabriel, let’s go and get your medal!
    â€” Yes but, I didn’t win . . .
    â€” Of course you won, Gabriel!
    â€” You were brilliant, Gabriel!
    â€” Come on, come and fetch your medal, Gabriel!
    You stand up and dry your face on your sleeve, and radiate pure, unadulterated pride and joy as your classmates lead you to the trophy table. Out on the