The Trenches of Vallarit

– Dad, what are those?
– Where?
– Over there, behind the trees.
– Those are trenches. Fortifications. Do you wanna go and see? It’s quite a scary place.
– Yes! Let’s go!

On a spring Sunday afternoon, we have driven to my mother’s place on Menninkäisentie. We have just finished enjoying Mother’s Day lunch. My mother is bustling in the kitchen with the coffee maker, taking the baked pie from the oven and chatting with my wife and daughters. My son is lounging on the living room floor, watching cartoons on TV. I have quietly sneaked away from the heat of the kitchen. How many times have I reminded my mom about adjusting the floor heating – all in vain. I have even taken off my socks. But it didn’t help much. I want to experience the cool floor and the atmosphere of past years in my own corner room. My bed was immediately to the left from the doorway, next to it was my bookshelf, and here in front of the window was my writing desk with big speakers on both sides. Over there in the corner a Dual record player and a Tandberg amplifier were piled on top of a small, red cabinet full of LP-records. The bed and desk still exist. I gaze out of the window of my old little room. The birch trees already have leaves, and white anemones are blooming. Someone grabs my hand. It seems that my son has had enough of the cheap cartoons. I lift him up to stand on the table.

– Listen mom! We are going to Vallarit with Tari. You know, those trenches. I want to show him the places from my childhood. As you know, I can’t drink coffee in the afternoon anyway.
– Go ahead. Just be careful. It’s a dangerous place.
– Yeah, we will! See, I told you. Dangerous and scary.
– Yeah. Fun! Let’s go daddy!

The trenches of Vallihaudat, known by every resident of Tapiola as Vallarit, were essentially the backyard of our house. They are located right in the middle of the Eastern Suburb; within the diagonal section lined by the streets of Menninkäisentie, Mäntyviita, Kimmeltie, and Poutapolku. The largest continuous set of fortifications in the Greater Helsinki Region is precisely where we now stand with my son. These trenches were built just before the First World War.

– These moats and holes are the trenches. When we were your age, we used to jump over them.
– Really daddy?
– Well, when we were a little older, yeah. They’re only about one meter wide here. You can jump over that too. Yep! Good job! Now you’re the King of Vallarit.

The trenches never witnessed real war. Various generations of Tapiola residents engaged in playful battles there for many decades. The most dangerous spots, such as ammunition depots, artillery batteries, and other covered areas with concrete roofs, had already been blown to pieces in 1918. The sturdy metal beams that supported the structures were needed for other construction projects in the early years of Finnish independence.

Parents warned us about Vallarit. And of course, not without reason. However, I don’t know of anyone who actually got injured while playing there as a little boy or girl. Pekka did break his arm on the slope of the fortifications – so, technically not on Vallarit. On that slope was growing a large rowan tree, which we naturally climbed. Someone came up with the idea of attaching a long manilla rope to it. Swinging, that is, throwing oneself into the air with the rope and trying to land on one’s feet, was the idea of this activity. Mimicking the cry of Tarzan, as we swung, was the essential part of our play. Pekka, who had a tendency to do everything a bit wilder than others, took off with great speed, bellowing the appropriate call for Tantor, the elephant. The cry continued on the ground, transforming into a painful wail. He had fallen onto his arm. We admired his cast for many weeks.

Later, I heard rumors of other accidents. Some happened within our circle of friends as well; though nothing serious. Vallarit were the regular hangout spot for the group of boys on Menninkäisentie: in and on the trenches we engaged in all kinds of play and mischief. War games – both modern and cowboy-and-indian battles – were initially played on our backyard, in the basements of buildings, and at other forbidden areas. The adults quickly grew tired of the constant running up and down the stairs, high-pitched yelling and the sound of cap guns. Permission to play at Vallarit was even granted to boys in the lower grades of elementary school. ”All roads led to Aarnivalkea school”, which was within eyeshot of the apartment buildings as well as the row houses on Menninkäisentie, also known as chicken coops. However, the discipline at school was militarily strict, and even the playtime during the breaks in the schoolyard was closely monitored. After all, it hadn’t even been twenty years since the end of the war. At Vallarit, we waged our own wars without supervision and played endless hide-and-seek games in the trenches during both spring and winter. In the summer, we couldn’t step into them. Two-meter tall nettles took over the rarely-used ditches.

In the cowboy-and-indian battles, everyone wanted to be Mohicans. The indians had airy feather headdresses and real toy bows, either bought from the Villa-Kerä toy store on Mäntyviita or crafted from juniper, complete with arrows. The cowboys had cap guns and sweaty felt hats. In TV shows, the cowboys always ended up victorious. But in these battles at Vallarit, the outcome could go either way. Usually, it ended in a stalemate when part of the tribe was called to eat. Cap guns popped, and arrows whizzed through the air. The war cry of the Indians was terrifying to hear.

So was my cry of agony. I had been chosen to be a cowboy in the game of ”eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” The arrows were real: some had suction cup heads, some were sharpened with a knife, and some came with metal tips. One of the latter flew straight into my eye, coming down from the sun. Luckily, it missed the eye slightly and hit next to my nose, leaving a deep hole. I was convinced I would go blind. Blood flowed abundantly, and we took a taxi to see a doctor. On the way back, I vomited in the backseat of the Volga taxi – either due to the anesthesia or the disappointment of not getting an eye patch. The doubled fare annoyed my mother, but we didn’t go chasing after the culprit. Accidents did happen. I proudly wore the bandage on my face for several days. Unfortunately, the scar faded away before I entered secondary school.

Next to Vallarit, right near the apartment buildings on Poutapolku, there was a miniature golf course for several years, or as we used to call it, minigolf, with a dozen or so tracks. The entry price was cheap, but we still came up with various tricks to get a free round of play. The fence surrounding the course was low, and it was easy to jump over. On weekends, when there were a lot players, it wasn’t difficult for a larger group of boys to putt using one friend’s club and ball. Only one player’s score was recorded on the given paper. The other game situations were attempted to be remembered. Naturally, disputes arose from this. I became so enthusiastic about minigolf that I couldn’t bring myself to leave, even though my stomach was in knots. I crossed my legs and tried to hold it in. Suddenly, it became even more urgent. I handed my club and scorecard to Heikki, dashed out of the gate, and made it onto the sidewalk when something dropped from the cuff of my shorts onto the sand. The rest I took care of in the bathroom at home…

In winter, ski tracks were made on the trenches for skiing competitions, and most importantly, for ski jumps. There were plenty of natural hills, ranging from gentle slopes to almost vertical ones. The sense of balance of a ten-year-old is good, and a seemingly bad fall only resulted in shaking off snow from clothes. It was necessary to carefully empty the hood of your coat. Otherwise, on the next jump, the snow flew into the eyes at a critical moment of takeoff. The ski jump records were broken frequently. Eventually, three and a half meters became the best distance on the gently sloping small hill. No one dared to match Pekka’s audacity. The snow prevented any bones from breaking this time.

At the end of Mäntyviita, right after the Elanto colonial goods store, there was a condominium garage where Tapiolan Yleishuolto operated. They sold winter sports equipment and repaired broken gear, frequently patching up snapped skis. A new set of skis you might get, at most, one pair per season – and even not that often. In reality, they usually changed hands within the descending line of siblings. The older brother’s skis, if they miraculously remained intact, were passed down to the younger brother, whether he was the right height or not. ”Rat traps”, the most popular ski bindings in those days, were screwed off of the broken Järvinen skis as they had adjustable bindings for different boot sizes. Damaged bindings were quite easily repaired, but bamboo skiing poles were a slightly trickier fix. Luckily, they weren’t very expensive. Items circled around and were repaired.

During at least one winter, the municipal technical maintenance, known familiarly as ”Kunteki,” froze the sled hill on the steep slope of Vallarit facing Kimmeltie. This was unusual because usually the track was made on the rather less steep hill of the new power plant site. Next to this hill was a huge former ammunition depot that had lost its roof half a century earlier. The easiest way to climb to the top of the hill went through this ex-depot. The speeds were high on the steep slope. Sensibly, Kunteki had not made any turns. On the straight downhill you could slide almost all the way to the street of Kimmeltie. Or it would have possible, if the forest bordering the road hadn’t conveniently slowed down the speed of the sled. Collision with a tree hurt too.

Adolescence was left behind, and new interests were found elsewhere. Music, books, and girls. In that exact order… Vallarit were by no means forgotten. They were the perfect spots for secret smoking. There were many routes leading to them. No need to tiptoe under my home’s windows, confident that someone would still see and report. In the dusk or pitch-black darkness, there was a guarantee that no parent would bother jumping over the trenches risking an accident. After devouring popcorn and a Western movie at Kino Tapiola, the path led either home or to the clubhouse on Poutapolku, Klitsu. Cigarettes burned and conversations surged with enthusiasm about Clint Eastwood’s superiority. One laid-back man always defeated a whole gang of drunken, sweaty thugs. He’s a tough guy that Clint…

The first experiments with alcohol were experienced at Vallarit – of course. Before reaching legal drinking age, we had to get the wine with the help of an older brother or by keeping an eye out for a suitable person to do the purchase at Heikintori Alko, the liquor store. The former option was by far the better solution. A random man could easily slip out of the store through the other door and disappear with the money. And even though there were guys watching the action at both doors, you had to be a truly strong-willed 15-year-old to dare to demand your money back from a big and aggressive drunkard.

In summer, on a sun-drenched green slope, wine bottles were passed around, and the tape recorder played. Sometimes, I would bring along a portable Philips record player that ran on batteries and a stack of singles. The tape recorder was better. The singles tended to get scratched in odd ways throughout the evening. There were rarely any afterparty locations known to anyone, so the festivities usually ended at sunset. The few times when a friend’s or an acquaintance’s home was empty of parents, things got wild. I felt sorry for the unfortunate soul who had suggested coming over to our place for an afterparty. Nothing was actually stolen from there. The fridge and liquor cabinet – which not many people had, fortunately – were emptied, and the place got messy. Not intentionally so. Glasses were spilled on the tablecloth, a full ashtray toppled to the floor, and someone ended up locked in the bathroom vomiting for hours. Often, the group of friends helped with the cleaning up the next day, but not always. I was part of the cleanup crew a few times. Cleaning the bathroom was really bad luck.

Vappu at Vallarit. That combination of words brings back a flood of memories for many former residents of Tapiola; those good memories tinted golden by time, and those bad ones engraved deep in the subconscious. Both were acquired during the 70s when hundreds of Tapiola’s youth gathered at the trenches of Vallarit to celebrate Vappu on May Day Eve. How the tradition started is shrouded in mystery for me at least? I suspect it began in the late 60s when the concept of ”youth” emerged, breaking down the strict double standards of the 50s and when beer was liberated. No invitations were sent out. Or rather, there was an open invitation that everyone knew about. There would be a crowd at Vallarit, even if it snowed on May Day Eve. Sometimes it did. There were also beautiful, almost summery eves. The birch trees had leaves, and the chaffinches sang. On the Eve, the gathering started to assemble in the central part of the area from early afternoon, where there was no visibility from any nearby house windows. Not much was actually done there. People hung out and drank. They talked and smoked. They acted crazy and threw up. They stumbled around and helped out the unconscious. The police sometimes came, as did ambulances. Tapiola Today magazine reported on it, and its readers condemned it in the Letters from Readers section. In other words, it was a typical youth celebration on May Day Eve.

Vappu 1972 remains vivid in my memory. I have crystal-clear images of it. Veli-Matti’s older brother had bought us drinks for the May Day Eve: a magnum bottle of Elysée sparkling wine per man – that is, per boy. One bottle goes unclaimed. My friend Veli-Matti has passed away. The accident on his way to school, a week before May Day, is fatal. He never regains consciousness. I sit in Juha’s apartment in a ball chair, holding a champagne glass, looking out at the beautiful Eve weather, seeing people walking towards the center of Vallarit with plastic bags in their hands, and I cry. Cassu spins the ball chair around. I look upward. Tears stream down his face.

Turning 18 was a crucial milestone. It marked the point when you could elegantly party indoors. However, the May Day Eve could fall on a weekday when nothing was open in the Otaniemi party center of two discotheques. In that case, you could find yourself at Vallarit, blending into a crowd of several hundred youngsters. And most likely, some hours later, you’d be in your own bed, wearing headphones, blasting Beatles or Bowie. Until you fall asleep, exhausted by the oncoming hangover.

My last May Day Eve at Vallarit takes place in the spring of 1976. I sit in my room, reading for the University of Helsinki entrance exams in history. The weather is beautiful after a long while. Through my window, it’s like watching a movie as a few people pass by first, then larger cheerful groups wander across our yard towards the Eldorado of May Day Eve. I put David Bowie’s ”Station to Station” album on the turntable. I need occasional breaks. J.C. Revill’s dry factual writing style numbs my mind. My eyes move along the lines, but nothing sticks in my memory. It’s a total waste of time. The lyrics of the opening track, ”Station to Station,” get me moving, even though I’ve sworn to myself to stay within the beam of my study lamp. I listen to the over-ten-minute song until the end. I grab a bottle of white wine from the fridge and put on my jacket.

”It’s too late to be late again,
It’s too late to be hateful.”