Excerpts from
Complete Freedom
By Tove Ditlevsen
Grete is dead.
The funeral is over and Iīve seen her family for the last time. Her mother cried the whole time, and when she looked at me with her large, bewildered eyes, I had to turn away because Iīd never noticed before how much Grete resembled her mother. My father-in-law sat there with his workerīs fists folded over his knees in clumsy excess, looking obstinate from sheer confusion. "And Grete, who was never sick a day in her life," he said. All three of her brothers, who had always struck me as altogether too loud and provincial, had something of her in them which I couldnīt grasp and put between the pages of a book, the way I had once hidden her rushed little letters: a certain look around the corners of the mouth, a gesture of the hand over a fair head of hair - the delicate, furtive family resemblance which comes and goes in glimpses and isnīt visible to just anyone.
Iīm glad theyīve gone. Itīs finally quiet and empty here, just as I myself feel quiet and empty Her mother kept looking at me during the pastorīs sermon, which dealt with fate and the mysterious ways of God. It made no impression on me. My father was a pastor and I donīt have much feeling left for the pastorīs God. Whenever my father sought a new position, he would always say heīd done so only after seeking counsel from God, but God never counselled him to take a position more poorly paid than the previous one.
But perhaps Greteīs mother only looked at me because she was seeking the grief that was absent from my eyes. Iīve grieved a lot for Grete, but I grieved most while she was still alive, and when I write this I do it to find out just who is to blame for my prolonged grief and for Greteīs needless death.
It certainly wasnīt the poor doctor who had to pay for her death with the loss of his practice. He was only a victim like the rest of us. And it wasnīt - no, all those evasions donīt matter anymore. Fear is approaching me in this empty house, the fear I want to flee from. My breast aches with uncried tears. Was it my fault, Grete? Did you have to die because I didnīt want another manīs child? Was it wrong not to want it? Does death always make someone guilty, or can it be necessary, like the natural conclusion of some predestined course? Do the dead always win? Are you lying there in your coffin with your small, closed, white face accusing the living? No, I donīt think Grete would accuse anyone, but her motherīs look frightened me today. Why didnīt they ask what she died of? A sudden abdominal attack! Is any mother satisfied with that kind of an explanation? But perhaps she knew everything now because she had sought in vain for signs of confusion in my eyes.
When I met Grete I had just published my first book. It had been well-received. A doctorīs wife with a literary bent, who had helped me with the bookīs publication, introduced me to some artists and writers with whom I felt quite comfortable. For a year I moved almost exclusively in that circle. We had our share of good times, and at a studio party at Amager Square I met Grete. At first, she didnīt interest me anymore than all of the other 18-20-year-old girls who continually moved in and out of our group in restlessly changing eddies. She was sweet and appealing and unattached, but the next day I didnīt think of her any more than I did of the previous eveningīs revelries.
Translated by Jack Brondum
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