Amatka Children’s House Three had one hundred and seventeen residents between the ages of six months and fifteen years. The principal, Larsbris’ Olof, had no objections to Vanja’s surprise visit; he was happy to show her through the building and tell her about their hygiene habits. The air in the residential area of the building was thick with the smell of vinyl mattresses and soap. It was bathing day. In the long sunken tubs in the basement, the children sat in rows, each scrubbing the back in front of them. Those at the end of a row had their backs scrubbed by an older sibling. It was always a race to not end up at the back of a row. Elders always scrubbed too hard, seeking revenge for all those times elders had bruised their backs when they were little.
“Atopic eczema, acne, dandruff,” the principal said as he led Vanja back upstairs. “And fungal infections. That’s what we deal with here. We could use something more effective against dandruff. The hair soap we have, it doesn’t work—it just makes your scalp dry and itchy. It’s probably made in Essre. You can tell they’ve never been here and have no idea what the climate is like. No offense.”
Vanja laughed in the way that meant the place I come from is terrible, isn’t it.
They continued on to the classrooms. In three halls, one for each age group, students sat on long benches facing the teacher’s desk. From the doors of two of the halls, only the muted sound of a teacher droning out a lecture could be heard. But from the third came the sound of a choir. Children’s House Three must have gifted students or a skilled teacher, because the harmonies drifting out through the chink in the door made Vanja’s eyes prickle. They were singing a version of “The Pioneer Song” with a beat that had been slowed down to an almost leisurely pace. Leaning on a solid fourth voice, the third and second voices entwined in a dissonance that wasn’t quite a dissonance, out of which the first voice rose up into bright notes that somehow entered through the ear and into the throat, constricting it. The pain didn’t dissipate until Olof had led her around a corner and out of earshot.
She only half listened to Olof’s account of the house kitchen and the hygiene routines observed there. When he was done, she thanked him for the tour and left. She chose a route that brought her by the classrooms. The singing had ceased. Even so, she stopped for a moment, in case they might start again. Instead, the door swung open, and thirty children in the oldest age bracket drifted out. They squabbled, let out adolescent howls, elbowed each other, and stared at Vanja. There was no sign that any of them had just been part of creating a sound so beautiful it hurt. Vanja set her course for home with a feeling of having somehow been made fun of.
That night, the bed still hadn’t arrived. The four members of the household had dinner together; the conversation consisted mainly of Nina’s small talk and Ulla’s acerbic comments. Vanja replied mechanically to questions aimed at her. She caught herself avoiding Nina’s eyes. Bedtime was very slow in coming. They undressed in silence. This time, Vanja carefully scooted back until one of her shoulder blades brushed against Nina’s back. Nina didn’t pull away, but nor did she come closer.
Herein follows a summary of the observations, examinations, and interviews not included in report 1.
The employees of Amatka’s clinic use the commune’s own products exclusively. When asked about her opinion of products from other manufacturers, such as Amatka’s First Independent Chemist, a senior physician replied that the products have not been available long enough to assess the effects of prolonged use. Therefore, the clinic administration has no interest in new products.
Employees at Amatka’s mushroom farms have expressed a need for a milder laundry detergent. The fungicides in the detergent used for their protective clothing cause many farmers to develop rashes and flaking skin. The skin reactions can be treated with creams, but return as and when treatment stops. No other needs have been expressed.
My general impression continues to be that except in the case of the mushroom farmers, there’s a sense of unease when discussing innovation and new products. Establishing anything but the commune’s first products seems to have been a struggle. Introducing even newer ones might be very difficult. I will, however, continue my investigations.
SECONDAY
The bookshelves in the library had been reorganized to make the gaps less obvious. Evgen sat behind his desk, writing index cards. When Vanja came in, he looked up and gave her a guarded smile. He looked less devastated.
“Hello again,” Vanja said.
“Welcome back,” Evgen said. “How are you getting on with number seven?”
“I like it very much.”
“Keep it a while. It gets better every time you read it.”
“I forgot to register it properly last time.” Vanja put the book down on the desk.
“Right, right.” Evgen took the library card from the pocket inside the cover and wrote something on it.
“Have you read any of her other poetry?” Vanja asked.
Evgen looked up. “What other poetry?”
Vanja hesitated. “I heard… I heard she wrote other poetry as well.”
Evgen rubbed the library card between his fingers. “Nothing that’s been published,” he said eventually. “Except the hymn.”
“A hymn?”
“Yes. But it’s not considered part of her work.” Evgen shrugged. “I can show it to you.”
He walked over to a bookcase in a different part of the room and drew out a thin booklet. “Here.”
The booklet was printed with the title A Book of Songs by Amatka’s Best Poets. Evgen opened it, turned a couple of pages, and held it out to Vanja. It was a call-and-response chant.
| We chose the committee | to care for us |
| We thank them | for the gift of calm |
| We thank them | for their steady rule |
| We thank them | for telling us |
| What to do | what to do |
| Thank you | for your guidance. |
Vanja looked up at Evgen. “It seems…,” she started, “sarcastic?”
Evgen gave her a tight smile.
An awkward silence descended on the room. Evgen seemed about to speak a few times but stopped himself.
“Listen,” Vanja said finally, “I was wondering if you have any historical information on… on hygiene habits?”
Evgen blinked. “Hygiene?”
“Yes. Because I’m actually here on an assignment. For a hygiene company. And I thought that maybe you might have some books or documents about that kind of thing.”
Evgen stared into space for a few seconds. Then he said “Hygiene, no, no books. But the letter collections.” He stood up and walked around his desk, heading for a door at the far end of the room. “Follow me.”
It was a long, narrow room, almost like a corridor. Shelves running the length of the walls were stacked with meticulous rows of gray boxes. Vanja walked along the shelves. The boxes weren’t marked BOX. Their rough surfaces were only labeled with years and subject words.