The Horrors of the Ice (Radio
theatre)
Text Peder Bjurman, Directed by Bogdan Szyber & Carina Reich
Voice & Music: Stina Nordenstam
Broadcasted by: SR P1 in 'Vita Nätter' May 12th 2003 & "Klimatfeber"
2007
Performed at Elverket, Stockholm Nov 2003
Translated by ?
(Theme song)
At the time when there still were white spots on the map, an ill-equipped
expedition of Austrian militars and Italian seamen set out to sea in the
search for the Northeast Passage. After only a few weeks they got stuck
in the ice and were ice-bounded there for two years.
The Radio Theatre presents; The Horrors of the Ice. Diary fragments from
the Austro-Hungarian North Pole Expedition of 1872. Narrated by Stina
Nordenstam, in a freely fabled version by Peder Bjurman. Idea and direction
Bogdan Szyber and Carina Reich.
If a human steps out naked on the ice, the Arctic cold would create a
cloud of fog around that person. And if the light comes from the right
angle, the borders of this cloud would shine in all the colours of the
rainbow; blue- violet, blue, yellow, orange, red-yellow.
The extinction of these colours would represent the stages when you are
freezing to death; a death visible into the very last, when the red-yellow
bow fades away. That is the dying at the North Pole, alone and extinction
like a will-o'-the-wisp.
(Theme song stops)
A few sea-gulls can still be seen sailing around. They visit the spots
of open water around us. With short wing strokes they are hovering above
the top of the mast, staring down at us and with hoarse screams they pass
fast as an arrow to the south. Away from this shadowland that is awaiting
us. We are stuck. It's as simple as that. Nothing can move us. Ice-bounded
here all winter or the night. The ship is now our only protection against
the cold. It has only been a short dream, the purpose of our journey.
With sorrow we watch our slowely failure. With lack of willpower and for
an indefinite time we are being brought into the darkness.
(Piano music)
It is summer, the second and it's thawing in the days. From the lookout
open water is sighted far away. The summer's break-up of the ice doesn't
reach us. Yet another winter is waiting for us.
The dogs are wild and Gillis, the big Newfoundland dog, tears apart the
last cat from Tromso, that has survived until now. The only creature we
could feel some kind of affection for. The death of the cat is causing
the men deep sorrow. Everyone was very fond of the animal, especially
the Tyrolese Klotz, who almost got tears in his eyes.
Most of us are loosing teeth, the gums swell up and suppurate. The scurvy
abscesses have to be cut off with sissors and the wounds burned with acid.
The face is deformed by chilblains, the hands are covered with wounds.
The frost deposit along the planking inside the ship is as thick as one's
arm, the blankets are frostbound and there is a smell of smoke from the
stoves. Several of the crew have a racking cough, the engineer is confined
to bed, back a month. The ship's doctor does his best to encurage him
that he soon will be well again, despite all hope seems to be gone.
When hunter Klotz returns to the ship from the bear hunt out on the ice,
he pulls off his frozen fur, mittens and the face protection of leather,
and suddenly he gets on his summer suit. He goes up on deck with his rifle
on his shoulder, standing there for a long time with his eyes in the remote
distance. He is only staring out over the ice, doesn't answer when spoken
to. Later when we look for him up on deck, he has disappeared without
a trace. The search teams are sent out in all four cardinal directions.
After five horror-filled hours he is finally found, bare headed and with
his face covered with ice he is passing slowely with dignity towards the
south, home to Tyrol, home to his valley. (Orchestral
music)
Without a word he lets himself be brought back to the ship. The clothes
breaks off his body, he defrosts with warm water, rubs warm and is put
in his berth, reserved and without a word.
He stays there for the nearest future, almost a month quiet in his bed,
away from the world, away from everything. But one day he suddenly rises,
gets dressed, grabs his rifle and reports for duty to the deck watchman.
We drift with the ice far more north, latitude by latitude at a snail's
silence pace of the drift ice.
(Piano music)
And then we spot something, suddenly from nowhere it emerges far, far
away, a ship or an optical illusion, a new continent. First just a small
spot, then larger, until mountains appears, black to all the white around.
The closer we drift the higher rises the land, higher and higher out of
the sea.
-We herby name you after the emperor of Austria; Franz Josef Land. (Orchestral
music) The expedition has by mere chance or with the help of God,
to where the ice drifted us, been taken to a new unknown land, never before
seen by man. No one has ever before walked its ground or climbed its mountains.
An ice kingdom of virgin land and barren as a sterile stoney desert with
its thin crust of ice that covers all.
Payer is training for the exploration and the upcoming triumph. The dog
sled is prepared. Under Payer's command three men march off towards land
to map these unknown areas, measuring, weighing. We have found a purpose
of our journey and reason enough to return back home. At the northest
point of this new land Payer is forced to turn back even if he still suspects
other land masses out there. With this imagination of yet another continent,
he sticks the flag into the ground at the northest point of the world.
Discovered and annexed, measured and named, crossed from east to west
and south to north, a sterile piece of stony desert in the polar water
north of Norway, Svalbard and Murmansk. A black spot in the white sea.
Summer, if you can call it that, is arriving. There after another polar
night, our third. If the decision is not soon being made we will never
see daylight again. Towards the unavoidable, that has to come sooner or
later, to abandon the ship and beat a retreat over the ice with thousand
kilometers to nearest mainland and only in small fragile boats over open
sea. Let the ice be, let it break. (Piano music)
Payer, the emperor's geographer and leader of the land journeys, says
that the dogs have to be trained and lets the crew build a track, three
nautical miles long, for sled trips with no particular destination. Just
round and round and round. A shorter section is lined with columns of
ice. The track gets longer and longer, and is lead through tunnels, past
lakes of melted snow, with names like Neusiedler, Spittal, Traunsee. Valleys
are named after the ones back home. The places are turned into temples
of crystal. A city is growing out of the masses of ice, with ornaments
and balistrades, a full-scale post-office, restaurants, town hall. The
crew are building the temples more beautiful and the towers higher than
Payer demands and are taking their work very seriously. They are playing.
On one Sunday morning during my sled tour, I get to see a seaman dressed
up as a young burgher lady on the oriel of a tower, to whom another one
is singing a serenade, wearing a tin can helmet crested with sea-gull
wings. They paint their faces with soot and beetroot juice, painted like
opera solists or Roman legionnaires. In all seriousness the play is played.
Voluntarily lost in this beautiful world we don't see ourselves anymore.
The crew enjoy themself. They take part on the same conditions and play.
The dog team pull the decorated sled through cities and countries, one
more magnificent and impressive and bigger than the other. The fairy tale
is complete. (Orchestral music)
Then it has to be done, the fairy tail is over and the decision is finally
made. We get ready for the journey home. Three life boats are prepared
with runners, like on sleds, and are loaded with supplies, as much as
we can carry. The log is put into sealed cans, like canned vegetables.
The memory of our journey shall never be lost even if we would be drowned
or die by the dragging over miles of ice.
(Theme song)
The crew take their framed pictures ashore, their loved ones, and put
them on a rock, sheltered from the wind. When the ship gets crushed, these
will not be lost and sink to the bottom of the sea. The rock with portraits
shall witness that everything that could be saved was saved. The dogs
are taken out on the ice and are shot; Semlja because she is too weak
and Gillis because he has gone mad of the harness. Our before so glorious
ship is lying in a pile of rubbish, with the imperial flag nailed to the
mast, decorated for the doomed destruction. I let the crew line-up and
to give a three cheers, then I give the word for departure. (Barrel
organ music)
On 20 May, heading southeast, towards open water. I know it seems hopeless,
but I put it into the crew's heads that the operation is possible. The
boats are being dragged and pulled over ridges, cracks and vast expances
of ice, always in bitterly cold headwind. After ten hours we have hardly
made more than thousand meters from the ship. Shall we turn back, back
to the warm bunks in the ship's inner? In awkward silence the sleds are
being dragged. The towlines cut into shoulders and hands. More and more
often we sink down to the waist in slush. Several throw up because of
exhaustion. The ship's masts are disappearing behind us, slowely getting
smaller and smaller.
Every day someone is sinking exhausted down on his knees praying for mercy.
The security in the shi is exchanged for months in tents. After two months
of efforts we have only made less than fifteen kilometers from our former
ship. I show nothing, but I realize that we are lost, if not something
completely unexpected would happen. I'm just amazed how calm I am watching
what is about to happen. Sometimes I think I don't care. My utmost decision
is made. That's why I'm calm. But I have the seamen's fate very much at
heart.
All I care about now is to be able to deposit the journals in such way
they will be found next year. Every lost day, not a nail but a whole board
in our coffin. The sled dragging is now just for the sake of appearances.
The few kilometers we gain are worthless for our purpose. The slightest
breeze drifts us farther away from the goal than we can walk in a whole
day.
Our liberation day is on August 15, the Assumption. (Theme
song section) With a three cheers we push off from the ice-edge,
towards the freedom. The outcome now only depends on the weather. Will there
be a storm our boats will sink. We watch the white ice-edge turn into a
line, finally vanishing.
(Piano music)
Stormy weather, we are exhausted. The boats are separated and waves almost
turn them over, filling them with water all the time, the crew bail and
bail. Mechanically we continue to row over an endless sea. Towards the
unknown answer of our journey's outcome.
On 24 August 1874, at seven in the evening, we spot the Russian whalers
Vasily and Nikolai, lying at anchor in Dunen-Bay. No one is cheering,
only the slap of the oars can be heard when we are nearing. Most of us
are to weak to climb the gangway on our own and has to be helped.
(Theme song begins)
When all are safe on board I hand over the letter of safe conduct to captain
Voronin who reads it out loud.
-Tsar Alexander II Nikolaevich commands the Austro-Hungarian expedition
to the care of his subjects. The Russian seamen kneel around us. We are
emaciated and covered with ulcers and chilblains.
We are the disfigured strangers that have been talked about in every Arctic
harbor for the last two years.
|