The choir began to sing. Their voices, deep and disciplined, rose over the crackle of the flames: "Längtan till landet" —a plea for the return of the sun. Johan watched the sparks fly toward the stars, feeling the ancient pull of the night. It wasn't just a student party; it was a pagan defiance of the dark.

Johan, a third-year theology student with more poetry in his head than scripture, stood on the banks of the Fyris River. The water was swollen and dark with the last of the winter melt. Around him, the crowd was a sea of dark wool coats, but every eye was fixed on the balcony of the University Library, Carolina Rediviva.

At the stroke of three, a signal was given. Johan, along with five hundred others, swept his white cap into the air with a roar. It was the "Donning of the Caps," the official break with winter. In that moment, the grey reality of 1935—the looming political shadows across the Baltic and the sting of the Great Depression—seemed to vanish behind a wave of white felt and silk.

Later, tucked into a crowded tavern cellar, the air was warm with the smell of punch and herring. Toasts were made to the "future," a word that felt fragile but bright in the firelight of 1935. Johan tipped his cap back, the white silk already slightly smudged with soot, and felt, for one night, that the spring had truly been won.

As evening fell, the celebration migrated to the hills. Johan joined a procession winding up toward the old castle. Huge piles of scrap wood, dried brush, and old furniture had been gathered. When the torches were applied, the Majbrasa (May bonfire) roared to life, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.

The air in Uppsala on April 30, 1935, carried a bite that the pale spring sun couldn't quite sharpen. In the cramped student quarters of the "Nation" houses, the scent of mothballs was thick as hundreds of young men shook out their white student caps—the studentmössa —preparing for the afternoon's frantic ritual.