The Little Wandering Church
Even though it was a regular weekday, Tórshavn was a
ghost town and had been that way for several weeks. No
hammer stroke was heard between the houses, no women
were washing clothes in the river, and no playful children
were rolling hoops in the alleyways. The city, which under
normal circumstances could man sixteen eight rowers,
could hardly man a single boat in May or June.
From a bird’s eye view, the turf thatched houses resembled
giant limpets that had adhered to the rocks and gave no
sign of life.
The situation was so dire that the Provost, hr. Hans, bought
several barrels of grain with help from the poor relief fund.
One pot occupied the stove of Adelheid Debess, the
midwife, and the other hung over a hearth belonging to an
old married couple on Bakki. Some of the disease- struck
were able to retrieve their own soup, but households whose
every member lay coughing and vomiting required others
to bring them their meals, and in some cases it was also
necessary to feed them.
One of the unselfish souls caring for the sick was Old Tóvó.
In his younger years he had been known as quite a ladies'
man, yet women still let him slip his hand under their necks
and lift their heads up while he gave them water or soup to