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A Woman in the Polar night – Christiane Ritter

Karl starts off at the end of February; I shall never forget the beauty of the morning twilight. My husband will accompany him for a short part of the way, carrying the heavy rucksack. The whole sky is deep lilac, lightening into a tender cobalt blue at the horizon, over the sea of ice. From the east a pale yellow brightness spreads, and the frozen sea, reflecting the heavenly colours, shines like an immense opal. Where sea and land meet, and where the tidal water thrusts through to the surface around the heavy masses of ice, the colours of the sky are reflected as brightly as in a mirror.

I stand a long time in front of the hut, immersed in the intoxicating beauty of the scene. Suddenly I hear a voice quite close to my ear. "Go left up the slope; there's always some there." Astonished, I turn round. There is not a soul to be seen. The men have long since vanished from my sight. "Then at least you'll have fresh meat," the ghost voice in the air continues. "For us out here things will soon get critical."

"So long." The reply, coming out of the air, seems to be in Karl's voice. 'At least I'll bring you back some fresh ptarmigan." Then I can hear the sound of skis, but I cannot tell whether they are approaching or receding. Then a sudden silence, which is not broken.