This is a story from the time when pe­op­le did not have mo­bi­le pho­nes. Nor were there any street lights or neigh­bors near the hou­se where all this hap­pe­ned.

Our pa­rents had a small gro­ce­ry store by the main road of a vil­la­ge. The vil­la­ge pe­op­le’s mail came to our store, and they could al­so mail their own let­ters from there. Neigh­bors of­ten used the te­lep­ho­ne in the kitc­hen be­hind the store if they had im­por­tant bu­si­ness to take care of. Cus­to­mers were ser­ved well. If a cus­to­mer as­ked for so­met­hing that my pa­rents did not have in the store, they went to town, purc­ha­sed it, and brought it to the cus­to­mer’s home.

It was hard work, but a co­lor­ful and busy life.

It was a clou­dy and dark au­tumn wee­kend. Our pa­rents had gone to vi­sit some re­la­ti­ves. Some of my sis­ters and one brot­her were at home. We were all yo­ung adults.

It was Sa­tur­day, and af­ter sau­na we had gone ups­tairs to sleep. We al­wa­ys slept well up there, but af­ter some time one of us woke up.

– Lis­ten, what is that?

We all held our bre­ath.

– It sounds like sa­wing. So­me­o­ne is bre­a­king in­to the store.

The thief must have seen that there was no car out­si­de the hou­se. It was a good night to break in.

As soon as we mo­ved a lit­t­le, the sa­wing sound stop­ped. But as soon as we stood still, it con­ti­nu­ed again.

We were af­raid but de­ci­ded to act. We bra­ve­ly made a plan.

The stairs from the at­tic came down to the hall, where there was a door in­to the kitc­hen and anot­her in­to the in­door sto­ra­ge room of the gro­ce­ry store. Next to that there was anot­her sto­ra­ge room with ent­ry from out­si­de, and its door was prop­ped shut with a lar­ge beam of wood.

We could hear the sa­wing cle­ar­ly at the door bet­ween the sto­ra­ge rooms. We ag­reed that the thief must be sa­wing a hole in the woo­den door and trying to get in.

The land­li­ne te­lep­ho­ne was in the kitc­hen. We did not have time to dress. Hol­ding the hems of our night­gowns we tip­to­ed down the stairs. We knew qui­te well the steps that cre­a­ked most. Each of us had a big pie­ce of fi­re­wood as a we­a­pon. Most of us even had torc­hes. We did not switch on the lights.

We ag­reed that our brot­her should open the door to the sto­ra­ge room shout in a loud voi­ce: STOP!

The girls were to at­tack the thief and hit him with their pie­ces of fi­re­wood – or at le­ast frigh­ten him away. We were to switch on our torc­hes and aim them at the thief. All ot­her lights were al­so to be switc­hed on at the same time. One of us was to go in­to the kitc­hen and call the po­li­ce.

We con­ti­nu­ed our si­lent march downs­tairs. The sa­wing stop­ped as soon as so­me­o­ne step­ped on a cre­a­king floor bo­ard, but then con­ti­nu­ed. Our he­arts were be­a­ting hard, but the thief would not have he­ard that, nor would he have seen the tremb­ling pie­ces of wood in our hands.

We did as we had ag­reed. There was a loud STOP shou­ted, all lights were switc­hed on, and the we­a­pons were lif­ted up in a thre­a­te­ning way. One of us was at the te­lep­ho­ne re­a­dy to dial the num­ber that she kept re­pe­a­ting to her­self.

The thief di­sap­pe­a­red: we on­ly saw its tail flit un­der the thres­hold.

A lar­ge rat had gna­wed a big hole in the woo­den thres­hold of the sto­ra­ge room. It had been a lot of work. The pile of saw­dust was surp­ri­sing­ly high. But the rat ne­ver got to samp­le the de­li­ci­ous gro­ce­ries in our pa­rents’ store.

We put down our we­a­pons. We found the hole that the rat had used to get in­to the ou­ter sto­ra­ge room. We bloc­ked up the ho­les with he­a­vy pie­ces of wood and even some sto­nes.

This thief did not come back, nor did we ever see any ot­her thie­ves like it.

We had a small snack in the kitc­hen be­fo­re we clim­bed back in­to the at­tic to sleep.

Text: Ai­li Pa­sa­nen

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen

You will find the ori­gi­nal blog post here.