As for Pearu, well, we have all had our asshole neighbors. I’m sure the factories were hiring, and the houses in Kalamaja were new back then. As far as I was concerned, he could have just gone to the city and got a proper job. I didn’t identify with Andres and his Bible. I didn’t identify at all with Juss, the softhearted suicidal neurotic. I sat there in the dark waiting, dreading the moment when I would have to see Juss take his life, unhappy about having to sit through nearly three hours of watching some workaholic saw wood. Even in mid-March, many weeks after its release, the showings in Viljandi sell out. The film though disarmed me of my old feelings.
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Did I need to go watch a long movie to be reminded of that? I was, by virtue of not being born into their culture, not normal. I would never understand their peculiar work fetish, their tolerance of some behaviors, which they deemed normal or normaalne, and their strange contempt for others. What Truth and Justice had taught me, was that I was not an Estonian. These personal grievances that have fueled centuries of mafia turf wars across the mezzogiorno didn’t matter in the sloping cold hills of Vargamäe. “If this was an Italian movie,” I told people, “Juss would have assassinated Andres in church.”Įstonians were often shocked by this comment and they would excuse Andres’ worst behavior by noting that he was quite industrious and was trying to run a farm. I had been bullied too, and to see him humiliated in public, as he was, was too much for me. Whenever poor Juss strung himself up from a tree branch in a stage production of Truth and Justice, it bothered me. I tend to sympathize with marginal characters, the neurotic outcasts. I had seen a few theatrical productions of Truth and Justice in the past, and found them unsettling. “You have to go see Truth and Justice,” they told me in all the cafes. They are still in love with it, and when the film came out, I was assailed from all sides to see it. In seven years, between 19, he wrote the five-volume series, Truth and Justice, which endeared him to Estonians for all time. Perhaps only old Charles Dickens rivaled him in output. Hansen, who published under the name AH Tammsaare, was the most disciplined producer of prose. Hansen wore a great coat, and at times a stylish hat, and he worked himself hard. It was as if God had spared him his nation’s tragic fate.
An iconic writer, he died in March 1940, three months short of the Soviet takeover.
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Anton Hansen even in maturity was never able to grow a full beard. An Estonian’s dream, it is said, is that he dies while he’s working.ĪNTON HANSEN WAS A PALE, mouse-like man, with enough hair to part on the side, and a thin mustache that gave one the sense that Mr.
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