Some of them looked like they weighed about four hundred pounds. His father wore down every one of them.
When they went home that night, he put his arm around Ove’s shoulders and said:
“Ove, only a swine thinks size and strength are the same thing. Remember that.”
And Ove never forgot it. His father never raised his fists. Not to Ove or anyone else.
Ove had classmates who came to school with black eyes or bruises from a belt buckle after a thrashing.
But never Ove. “We don’t fight in this family,” his father used to state. “Not with each other or anyone else.”
He was well liked down at the railway, quiet but kind.
There were some who said he was “too kind.” Ove remembers how as a child he could never understand how this could be something bad.
Then Mum died. And Dad grew even quieter. As if she took away with her the few words he’d possessed.
So Ove and his father never talked excessively, but they liked each other’s company.
They sat in silence on either side of the kitchen table, and had ways of keeping busy.
Every other day they put out food for a family of birds living in a rotting tree at the back of the house.
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