The Väinössons: Gael's Heritage, Why There’s Finnish in The City Without Saints

When I started writing The City Without Saints, I didn’t plan to include Finnish. But as Gael’s story unfolded — and as I explored the roots of his family — I realized there was something sacred I couldn’t leave out.

Gael’s parents, Erik and Aina, were born in Finland. Before the story’s timeline, when they were only kids, they traveled to Argentina as refugees during World War II, escaping the violence that was consuming Europe. Though their journey is fictional, it’s inspired by real history — and by the quiet strength of those who carried their identity, language, and pain across oceans to start over.

Including a few lines of Finnish in the book was my way of honoring their fictional heritage, and giving voice to something deeply personal and real: a mother’s lullaby, a father's quiet warning, a memory that lingers in Gael’s mind like the scent of a forest he’s never seen but still somehow remembers.

Here are a few of those Finnish lines — and what they mean in English:

1. “Missä sinä olet, Erik?” she whispered. “Kaksi vuotta on kulunut…”

Translation: “Where are you, Erik?” she whispered. “It's been two years.”

Scene context: This line is spoken by Aina, Gael’s mother, as she watches her sons training with rifles in the yard. It’s been two years since Erik — her husband and their father — disappeared, and she’s been trying to carry on. But in this moment, as she sees her youngest son, Gael, mimicking soldiers instead of playing like a child, her grief resurfaces. The whispered Finnish line is a moment of emotional rupture — a private plea into the wind, spoken in her mother tongue, asking where Erik is and mourning how long it's been since he left.

2. “Missä olet, Erik?” she whispered.

Translation: “Where are you, Erik?” she whispered.

Scene context: In this quiet, reflective scene, Aina steps outside onto the porch after putting the boys to bed. The house has settled into peaceful silence, and she finds a few minutes alone — something rare and sacred in her routine. She lights a cigarette, a habit she once shared with Erik when they would sit on that same porch together after long days. Now, with him gone and no sign of his return, she smokes alone under the moonlight. The whispered Finnish line, “Missä olet, Erik?” — “Where are you, Erik?” — is not just a question, but a ritual. A longing. A prayer carried into the night air, as if the wind might know something she doesn’t.

3. The letter addressed from Finland Tampere on kylmempi kuin odotin, mutta päivät pitenevät jo. Näin eilen illalla torin valojen loistavan–se tuntui melkein kodilta. Kämppikseni on yrittänyt opettaa minua laittamaan jotain syötävää. Hänen lääkärinsä sanoi, että polvi paranee hyvin. Olen niin iloinen hänen puolestaan. Unohdin itse asiassa, että hän edes loukkaantui alun perin. Valvoimme myöhään puhuen kaikesta ja ei-mistään. Olen täydellisessä remissiossa–niin hän sanoi. Kuvittele sitä. Kokeilimme uutta kahvilaa, jossa barista soittaa jazzia aamuisin. Rakastan sitä enemmän kuin pitäisi–se muistuttaa minua vanhasta keittiöstämme. Yliopistorakennus on aivan sen edessä.

Translation:

Tampere is colder than I expected, but the days are getting longer; I saw the market square lit up last night—it almost felt like home; and my roommate’s been trying to teach me how to cook something edible; her doctor said her knee is healing well; I'm so glad for her; I totally forgot that she even got hurt in the first time; we stayed up late talking about nothing and everything. I remission completely, or so she told me—imagine that; We tried a new café where the barista plays jazz in the mornings; I love it more than I should: it reminds me of our old kitchen; the university building is just in front of it.

Scene context:  In this scene, Gael returns to his family’s ranch and opens his late parents’ bedroom for the first time in years. As he begins to sift through boxes on the closet shelf, he uncovers fragments of a past he never fully understood. One letter, written entirely in Finnish and signed by Emma Korhonen, catches his attention. Though he can’t translate it fully, he recognizes the handwriting as meaningful — delicate, intimate, and possibly tied to his mother’s past. The letter speaks of everyday moments in Tampere, Finland, filled with small joys and quiet reflection: jazz in the mornings, healing after illness, conversations late into the night.

Though Gael doesn’t yet know who Emma is, or what her connection to his family might be, the letter offers a rare emotional window — not into trauma or loss, but into life continuing somewhere far away. It's a soft, human detail woven into a chapter heavy with revelations, as Gael begins to uncover not only the secrets of his father’s violent past, but the softer, almost forgotten strands of his mother’s legacy.

4. Operation Suomenlahti, Kääpiö, Saari

Translation: Operation Gulf of Finland, Dwarf, Island

Scene context: As the same scene unfolds, Gael moves from his mother’s letter to the next box—his father’s. Inside, he finds military files labeled in Finnish: The warmth of Emma’s words is quickly replaced by a colder truth—his father’s past was not just private, but strategic, encoded, and possibly dangerous. The contrast between the two boxes marks a turning point: one parent’s quiet humanity, the other’s hidden warfare.

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I chose not to translate these lines in the book because I wanted readers to feel what Gael feels — that strange tension between familiarity and distance, memory and loss. But here, I wanted to share what they meant. To let you feel the warmth and weight behind those words.

In a way, The City Without Saints is a story of inheritance — of what survives after everything else is gone. And language is part of that. Even if it’s just a whisper.

Kiitos for reading. And for listening closely to the quiet parts.