How Sven Wiberg Nearly Killed Me Without
even trying
Actually I did meet the Wibergs long before I knew
they had any connection to my family
A sweet little introduction to the Frieda story
As told by Sven Wickberg.
| I was some 13 years old, a Junior Soldier
of the Stockholm 1 Corps (Salvation Army), and member of the very small
and humble Young People's Band. The little band had been diminished, we
were only three. Our leader was a Candidate for the Training College and
was going to leave us. The bandmaster (of the senior band) said to our
parents: We'll take care of the boys! Send them down to the Corps
on Sunday night! So we went.
The three of us were two sons of Lt-Colonel Emanual Sundin
and myself. We all lived in the same block as the corps. When we came down
that night we had no idea at all what was going to happen. |
|
When we walked into that Band Room we were heartily welcomed.
Each of us was immediately given a locker (with a key!) for our instruments
and a red tunic. It was the old fashioned type, with white stripes
("ribs") on the chest. (At least they used to be white...) We were told
to put on our new-old uniforms, take our instruments and come along. "Along"
meant walking up the stairs to the back of the platform, then climbing
the high platform and preparing to play the first song.
In this rather unconventional way I entered the first Sunday night
Salvation Meeting in my life!
Everything was new: the whole "ritual" with testimonies,
address, "prayer meeting"... We watched everything keenly with big bright
young eyes.
I had been told (by my parents) to be back home at the
latest 9.30 p.m. Since the meeting had not finished at that time the three
of us -- a little noisily perhaps -- went down from the platform in the
middle of the sermon and left.
From this time on, playing in the Band was our priority. And so I
found myself an acting SA bandsman.
But it did not take long until it dawned upon me that
sitting on the platform brought with it certain obligations. There was
this custom of calling on "anyone" for a testimony. I was scared stiff
by the thought that some (idiot) might call on me...
And one Sunday our Corps Officer announced:
Next Sunday we will have the pleasure of listening to Sven Wickberg....
(MY HEART STOPPED!!)
-- but no, I soon realized that it wasn't me. He had
spoken of some Colonel Sven Wiberg..., and
s l o w l y
my heart began to beat again.
So I must have met this Sven Wiberg once or twice after
this, leading a Sunday night meeting at the Stockholm 1,"Templet" as they
call it nowadays. If I remember correctly he had a very piercing look under
his big eyebrows. When he entered the platform and gave his troops an inspecting
glance, I always felt quite sure his glance said: That little one on the
cornet over there must give his testimony to-night... |
|
That never happened, however, so eventually I was more and more at ease
and not scared so easily. (And in due time learned how to give my testimony.)
So much for Sven Wiberg.
This was in 1945. Many years later, in the middle 1960's, I had a phone
call from an American Salvation Army officer by the name of Hugo Wiberg.
He was on holiday in Stockholm for a couple of days. I did not know that
he was a son of this Sven, and he didn't tell me. He only he told me that
he had known my mother, Frieda. We talked for a while and then hung up.
I was a bit puzzled, since I did not quite understand what he really wanted.
(I found that out later, and that is part of the Frieda story.)
In 1998 I was contacted by Mary Long, Hugo's daughter. She sent me
letters from Frieda to Hugo, and in fact inspired me to make these pages.
1999 02 17; 99 04 21
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