| RAGNHEIDUR
INGVARSDÓTTIR
By Ed Chalom "We
have loved more in one brief summer than most people have loved in all their lives.
Oh, how I wish you were a simple Icelandic fisherman so that you could stay with
me rather than fly away." It was September 1955 and I received this letter
shortly after my departure from Iceland. The deceptively named island in the North
Atlantic had been my theatre of operations for a year and I had played the role
of Supply Sergeant. At that time, there were over 20,000 military personnel stationed
at Keflavík air base, located about 30 miles from the capital city of Reykjavík,
but very few like me who took an interest in the country or its people. Her name
was Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir - Dottie for short. She was a beautiful auburn-haired
nurse. She worked in a city hospital and we met at a dance fairly early in my
stay, although our lives didn't intertwine until my last three months there. Her
semi-fluent English was comparable to my semi-fluent Icelandic, so we were linguistically
compatible (aside from other compatibilities). When I was up for some furlough
time, I took her to Scotland and England, which provided her with her first experience
of the world outside of Iceland. The highlight of her trip was, I imagine, the
afternoon spent shopping the big London department stores. Memory
is a funny kind of reservoir. There is sometimes no logical reason why certain
things are quickly effaced and others stubbornly stick. Dottie and I parted. The
probability of our lives ever crossing again was practically nil. Our stars followed
different trajectories in different parts of the universe with no intergalactic
communication. And yet 47 years later when my daughter Eve suggested that we take
a vacation together in Iceland and I had agreed, the submerged, stubbornly sticking
details surfaced. How can one forget a name like Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir?
Many images of our distant encounter materialized. I was ready to go back to Iceland
in June 2003, but the trip had now assumed an unexpected emotional dimension.
Not only was I going back geographically, but I was also going back to my past
life and I wasn't sure of what I would find. Icelanders
use a patronymic system for naming their children - you are somebody's son or
somebody's daughter (dóttir) - but the handy thing is that women do not
change their names when married. Phone book white pages list people by their first
names first. There are about 275,000 Icelanders on the island and they are all
in the national database with name, address, phone number and date of birth. Six
Ragnheidur Ingvarsdætur popped up on the computer screen at the hotel information
desk. Three were quickly eliminated because of their age. I reached two others
by phone and verified that they were not the person I was looking for. The last
possible woman had an inoperable phone because the number had been put "in
storage", a system permitting a person to disconnect her phone, but reserve
the number for future use. Well, I had the address, so I decided to make a personal
appearance. It
was a neat complex of two-storey apartment buildings and a woman in the parking
lot pointed out the correct unit. There were four apartments in each unit and
the lit doorbell of one flashed 'Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir'. I held my breath
and pushed the button. Who would walk through the door? Had she been waiting for
my return? Would she even remember me??? There
was no answer. I then noticed that her mailbox was stuffed with letters and papers
indicating it had not been emptied for some time. I left a note: "My name
is Ed Chalom. I was a soldier stationed at Keflavík in 1955 and I had a
friend named Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir. I don't know if you are that same
woman. You can reach me at." According
to a recent census, there are 73,165 horses in Iceland. This horse is a unique
breed and Eve was eager to ride. We were planning to go to a large stable for
a group ride, but at the last minute I decided it would be preferable to go to
a smaller stable on our own. Two lady riders went out with us on the trails through
the lava field and in conversation with one I found out that she was the Director
of Nurses at the main Reykjavík hospital. "Is
it possible that you know a nurse, probably retired, by the name of Ragnheidur
Ingvarsdóttir?" "No,
but I have a complete directory at the hospital of all past and present Icelandic
nurses. After our ride, we'll go to the hospital and check it out." At
the hospital the director drew down the three-volume directory of nurses and there
on the bottom of a page of Rs was 'Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir' with the same
birth date as the woman with the "in storage" telephone. There was a
full paragraph outlining her life story, and when we turned the page her serene
clear-eyed photo looked out at me. Among the details of her education, work history
and lineage was the fact that she had married an American sailor in 1959. They
had one son and sometime thereafter had been divorced. She retired as a nurse
in 1989. It struck me as somehow sad to see her life summarized in a paragraph
as, indeed, my own life similarly could be reduced to a few words and numbers.
Iceland is a
volcanic island where hot water for heating and swimming surges out of underground
springs. On our next to last day in Reykjavík, we made our daily visit
to one of the ubiquitous swimming pools. Then, impelled by my genetic persistence,
I decided that since I knew where the right woman lived, I could find out more
information about her absence from one of her neighbors. "Do
you speak English?" "Yes." "Do
you know Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir?" "She
doesn't live here." "But
her name is right there on the doorbell." "Oh,
but she is living in Spain now. Every year she lives in Spain for six or seven
months and then she comes back." Our
days died imperceptibly - day is day and night is day in the Icelandic June. We
arrived at the airport a couple hours before flight time, passed through security,
and were waiting at the gate when a voice over the PA system said, "Would
passenger Edward Chalom please come to the information desk in the main terminal?" "Eve,
watch the baggage and I'll go see what they want." As
I approached the information desk, a white-haired, graceful lady turned to face
me. "Hello
Ed. Long time, no see." The
heart is also a funny reservoir. From the depth of an inexpressible emotion, tears
leaped to our eyes. We touched hands and stood there weeping senselessly. The
flight back was silent and uneventful.
After PublishAmerica discovered this letter that was buried in an Iceland
Review newsletter in 2003, we tracked the author down and convinced him to write
a book about this love story. Ed Chalom and Ragnheidur Ingvarsdóttir went
to Spain to work on their book, The Heart Is A Funny Reservoir. It was released
early 2004 by PublishAmerica and PublishIslandica simultaneously.
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