When my family evacuated, they buried a coffee set in a field—their house was burned down, but the cups are still in use
The coffee set that survived in a hole in a field is more than a coffee set. “It’s proof that many things can be taken away, but a good hiding spot helps a little,” writes Anna Brotkin.
I was in my twenties and had just moved to Helsinki when the fire alarm in my apartment building started blaring in the middle of the night. A piercing wail echoed in the stairwell, and I could smell smoke seeping in from somewhere. I leapt out of bed, grabbed my phone, and, without further thought, also took my laptop—of all things.
Other residents of the building had also gathered outside on the street. They weren’t carrying laptops; they had children, pets, and coats with them.
Indeed. I had forgotten my coat, so I was shivering in the chilly April air in my pajamas, hugging my laptop. There was no fire anywhere, yet the alarm kept blaring. Others had smelled something burning and seen smoke as well.
The fire department checked the basement and the attic, but no fire was found. They concluded that perhaps one of the neighbors had burned their food and hadn’t dared to come outside to admit they caused the alarm. The others returned to their homes, but I called a friend who lived in the next block to ask if I could sleep on their couch.
“I wonder if my neighbors think I’m a workaholic? Why, in my rush to escape the fire, didn’t I grab ornaments, family photos, or jewelry instead of a laptop with a weak battery?”
At night, I lay on my friend’s couch, staring at my laptop lying on the coffee table. I wondered if my neighbors thought I was a workaholic. How silly I must have looked, hugging that silver slab. Why, in my overly dramatic rush to escape the fire, didn’t I take ornaments, family photos, or jewelry instead of a laptop with a weak battery, which you can buy in a store at any time?
Then I realized why I had grabbed my laptop first. It held the manuscript I had been writing all winter, which, for the first time in a long while, felt like it might actually make sense. In my writing hubris, I hadn’t backed it up anywhere. That rough draft was my most important possession—even though no one else even knew it existed.
Almost a hundred years earlier, my family evacuated. Before leaving, they dug a hole in a field and stashed an entire coffee set there. It made no sense to pack the porcelain for the journey, so they left it in the soil to wait for a possible return.
When the family returned, the house had been burned down, but the dishes were found in the field, untouched. The original house no longer exists, but you can still drink coffee from a cup that survived through war and destruction.
“The original house no longer exists, but you can still drink coffee from a cup that survived the war.”
Nowadays, I back up everything, so if a new fire were to break out, I probably wouldn’t waste precious seconds searching for my laptop anymore. But what would I grab? What would I bury in a field if I had to leave? Maybe the lucky amulet I bought in Japan? The heirloom napkins embroidered with initials? My favorite painting? What would you take?
Someone would surely say they wouldn’t bury anything anywhere, that memories are more important than objects, and that a cup, in the end, is just a cup. Stories remain stored in the hard drives of our minds, and what matters most in life is something else entirely.
To me, the coffee set that survived in my family’s field is more than a coffee set. It’s proof that many things can be taken away, but a good hiding place helps. The cups carry the story that we got to return home, even though the house was gone.
The manuscript on my laptop was also important to me; it later became something that’s a big part of my story. Of course, I could have lived without the cup or the laptop, but thank goodness those items survived.
