WAR DEPARTMENT
SAINT PAUL
Indications for 24 hours commencing at 7 A.M. today.
FOR SAINT PAUL AND MINNEAPOLIS: snow, colder with a cold wave, fresh northerly winds.
FOR MINNESOTA: colder with a cold wave, snow followed in northern part by fair weather, fresh northerly winds.
FOR DAKOTA: local snows, colder with a cold wave, fresh northerly winds becoming variable.
CHAPTER 20
•••••
THE SUN ROSE THAT MORNING as ever, peeking over the eastern horizon, taking its sweet time, painting the black sky purple, then pink, then with tendrils of faded blue that began to erase the night. It continued to rise, until a dome of the most brilliant blue encircled a prairie that was sparkling with new snow, the crystals catching and reflecting back up their blinding bursts of brilliance.
A hawk, one that had found shelter in a nest built in the top of a newly planted oak next to a little creek, emerged, shaking its wings lazily before taking to the sky, working to catch a current. The air was so still he had to climb higher than usual, but then he found it; he circled widely, flapping his wings slowly as he patrolled his patch of prairie, searching for something to eat.
As he soared high above, the blinding white of the landscape below seemed unbroken, a great undulating blanket of snow as far as the eye could see, except for a few far-flung houses and barns. Fences were completely obscured, so that it all seemed one parcel, one infinite landscape of shimmering diamonds.
But the hawk knew the landscape; there were vast areas of it he avoided due to a scarcity of prey. Land that was overhunted—that land was the Great Sioux Reservation, bordered by the rugged Black Hills on the west, the Missouri River on the east. There, even scrawny squirrels and half-dead rabbits were precious. The smudges there were tepees, made out of fading buffalo hide, clustered together in groups, the groups too close to those from other tribes, but forced, due to the government, to live together. Misery hung over this landscape like a cloud, even on the sunniest day.
So he kept to the south, swooping closer to the ground, and finally the peaceful-seeming landscape gave up some secrets. A fence post here, a clump of bushes there, an upturned wagon, haystacks.
As his eyes adjusted, however, other secrets were discovered. What seemed like a line of small haystacks were, upon closer inspection as the hawk zeroed in, cows. Unmoving cows, statues; some on their sides, others standing, all frozen where they were.
The hawk turned, uninterested, to investigate more dark shapes emerging from the blinding white; horses, their legs collapsed under them, eyes closed forever.
Now the hawk swooped back up, circling ever wider, before zeroing in on the ground again, intent for food.
But nothing moved. Not a rabbit, not a gopher. Not a smaller bird, unaware.
A small smudge over there—the bird cruised down to see, hopeful, hungry. But he was disappointed; the smudge did not move. For it was an arm, sticking out of the snow, attached to a body buried beneath.
Another odd blot of lifelessness, another, another—the bird took it all in from his aerial vantage point. A yellow hat atop a grey head, eyes frozen shut. A hand, poking out of a drift; a child’s hand, so small, so white, a deathly white, paler than the snow. A wagon wheel, a pale blue dress fluttering out of its spokes, and inside that dress, a lifeless female body.
Clothing fluttered, moving, tricking the hawk time and again into thinking it had found its breakfast. Clothing blown off bodies that were now naked to the elements, like the one over there, only a few heartbreaking steps away from a barn.
And more small hands, feet, faces upturned, eyes shut tight. That deathly pallor, blue grey against the dazzling white snow.
The hawk turned northward, hoping for better hunting grounds.
But he was doomed to be disappointed on this cold, sunny morning.
CHAPTER 21
•••••
AS THE SUN ROSE, ITS rays filled the Halvorsan house with cruel memories. A reminder of the previous morning, when everything seemed full of hope and promise. But despite the blinding rays, the house was no warmer than it had been the night before; there was ice inside the windowpanes because of the humidity from all the clothing that had thawed out during the night.
The children began to stir, sitting up, crying out their hunger, their longing for their parents. Raina rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked down in surprise; her damp garments had been replaced by dry ones, a dress, one of Mrs. Halvorsan’s own. Every muscle ached—pulsed with pain, actually; every joint protested movement, and she had a pounding headache. But she rose, and automatically went to the stove, where Mrs. Halvorsan stood before a pot of porridge, stirring it listlessly with one hand while with the other she clutched a dishtowel so tightly, her knuckles were white.
Tor wasn’t among the children, and Raina could only assume that at some point he had gone to his own room, where his younger siblings slept.
“Has Mr.—”
“No,” Mrs. Halvorsan said abruptly. “Peter has not returned. Tor is getting dressed to go out and look, now that the storm is gone.”
“How is he? I was worried about his ears; did they get frostbit?”
“Only a little, he’ll lose some skin but not the cartilage, so he’ll be fine.”
“Mrs. Halvorsan, I—I don’t know what to say about Fredrik. He ran after Anette before I could even see that he was gone.”
“Anette? That Pedersen girl, the one who’s just a hired hand?” Mrs. Halvorsan put the spoon down, turning to Raina in surprise.
“Yes. They’re very good friends, you know.”
“I didn’t know. Fredrik talks about her now and then, but I didn’t know he was partial to her in any way.”
“She doesn’t have any friends, other than your son. The other children don’t know how to treat her; they know she’s—well, just a servant, really, at the Pedersens. It makes it awkward for them all.”
“You board with them, don’t you?” Mrs. Halvorsan’s eyebrow arched, and Raina found herself blushing, as if the woman could know what had happened over the last few weeks.
“Yes, I do.”
“I hear that woman—Anna Pedersen—is a handful. We tried to be neighborly when they first came, but she didn’t want no part of us, or nobody else. Too good for us, she must think herself.” Mrs. Halvorsan sniffed, then she turned back to the stove, picking up the spoon and attacking the porridge, the dishtowel now on the floor.
“It is—it is an unusual household. And Anette is not treated well, but then her own mother was the one who gave her away.”
“Sold her, I heard.”
“I don’t know about that. But she is unloved, that’s true. Except by your Fredrik. So please, don’t be angry with him for running after her. He has a kind heart.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Halvorsan’s chin began to tremble, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes, he has, that one.”
“And Tor, he does, too. He so wanted to go after his brother, but I couldn’t let him. It’s my fault, not his.” Raina desperately wanted Sara Halvorsan to tell her it was nobody’s fault, but she didn’t. She simply walked to the window and stared out at the pitiless prairie. The snow sparkled like fresh sugar, mounded up against the barn, the porch. Anyone out there—anyone who had been trapped overnight, lost in the storm—how could they survive the cold? Especially small, vulnerable bodies. Like Anette and Fredrik.
Tor lumbered down the crude stairs leading up to the attic; here in his own house, the biggest person there, he looked like a man. In a buffalo coat, a wool hat with earflaps, sturdy boots, leather gloves, a muffler he was in the process of winding about his neck and face, he appeared immense. Like a bear. Only his eyes, anxious, still sleepy, betrayed his youth.
His mother went to him, placed h
er hand on his arm.
“See if you can find Papa’s tracks, but if not, head toward the Pedersen place. And try to find out where the doctor is. That little girl, Rosa—she’s going to lose her foot, I think. I gave her some whiskey but I don’t have any more.”
“I will, Mama,” Tor said, his voice muffled. “Don’t worry, I’ll find them.”
“I know you’ll do your best,” she assured him, releasing him to his duty. Raina cleared her throat; she wanted to say something to Tor, too—if only “good luck”—but she knew he would never pay any mind to anything she said, ever again. They were no longer allies, and they couldn’t go back to being teacher and pupil.
They were strangers, she guessed with a disappointment that surprised her. Or even worse, adversaries.
Tor did not look at her; he walked to the front door and left, and Raina watched him struggle through the drifted snow, in some places up to his waist; here, sheltered by buildings, the snow had things to pile against. But out on the prairie it would be different, somewhat easier; not as deep, as if a giant broom had swept the snow first one way, then another. She was about to turn away when she saw Tor suddenly stop; he put his hands to his mouth as if he was calling out to someone just out of view of the kitchen. Then he broke into an awkward run, falling once, before he staggered up and disappeared around the corner of the barn.
Ten seconds later, everyone in the house could hear his strangled cry, mixed with the startling sound of bells jingling, a horse neighing as, with a great fanfare, a sleigh roared up to the house; Raina ran outside, heedless of the cold, and locked eyes with the man holding the reins, bundled up in robes and skins. As she did, she felt the familiar flush of anger and confusion, desire and hate—
Just as Tor came running toward her, arms waving wildly in the air, shouting, “Papa! Papa!—Miss Olsen, Mama—come see, it’s Papa!”
Before Raina could say a word to Gunner Pedersen, she was being pulled by Tor through the snow, the shock of plunging into the cold igniting memories of the night before. Mrs. Halvorsan was right behind her, calling her husband’s name; Gunner had jumped out of the sleigh, shouting, “Raina? Raina—thank God!” But when they turned the corner of the barn, they all stopped, shocked into silence.
For there was the body of Peter Halvorsan, stuck in the snow like a frozen Norse god. He appeared to be seated, his great shoulders and head the only things visible. His skin was a sickly grey, his hair white with snow, and icicles beaded his shut eyes, his hair, his beard.
He was only ten feet from his own barn.
“Papa,” Tor cried hoarsely as he tried, frantically, to dig his father out of his snowy grave. He ran to the barn for a shovel; he began to chip away at the snow, but he was sobbing too heavily. Gunner ran to the boy, gently pushed him away, knelt down and tried to shake Peter Halvorsan back into living. But it was too late.
“Peter!” Mrs. Halvorsan was on her knees, her hands patting her husband’s still, icy face, trying to warm him up; desperate, she tried to pry his frozen lips open so she could blow breath into his body. But it was too late.
“Raina!” Gunner finally turned to her. “I thought—I didn’t know…I worried myself sick when no one came home; you must come with me now. I’ll take you back.”
But it was too late.
Raina shook her head, backed away, her eyes glued to the tragic scene before her. “No,” she whispered fiercely. “I won’t go back to that house. I won’t.”
Gunner looked at her, puzzled, then turned around to help Tor pry his father’s body off the ground—it was frozen into a sitting position, making it difficult to maneuver. The two of them stumbled, struggled to bear that icy giant into the house; Mrs. Halvorsan was still crying her husband’s name, and Tor’s tears froze on his cheeks. Somehow, they got Peter Halvorsan into the kitchen, and laid him on the floor next to the stove; the presence of this frozen form, lying on its side, knees drawn up, silenced the entire house of crying children.
“Peter,” Mrs. Halvorsan whispered, kneeling next to him, gently covering him up with her own shawl. “My Peter, my boy—Fredrik, oh, where is he?”
Raina looked at Gunner; he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. So Anette and Fredrik had not made it home, after all. She grabbed her coat, her gloves, and ran out the door, Gunner following her.
“We have to find them, Anette and Fredrik,” she called over her shoulder as she climbed back into the sleigh, waving off his assist. “Oh, hurry up! Don’t just stand there!”
Gunner was so shocked by her tone that any gallant speech froze on his tongue; he climbed in next to her but seemed incapable of action. She grabbed the reins herself and slapped them against the horse’s back, jerking the sleigh into motion as she steered it out toward the prairie.
Praying it wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER 22
•••••
THE CHANGE IN ATMOSPHERE FINALLY roused Gerda from her coma, although she couldn’t open her eyes right away. They were frosted shut, as if she’d stitched her top and bottom eyelashes together. She was able to move her left arm, slowly, and she placed her hand—cold, a dead weight—on her eyes, and tried to pry her lids apart. Finally she was able to, although she knew she’d broken the skin somewhere, as she felt a fresh sting of icy air around the corners of both eyes.
She remained on her back, and she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, to tell her where she was. At first all she saw was darkness, but slowly she became aware of a glow of light at her feet, weak rays of sun snaking inside the shelter, which gradually showed her that the roof over her head was made of straw, and then she realized she was lying on straw, frozen and poking at her. Then she looked at her hands and saw that they were purplish red, and covered with pricks.
She couldn’t feel her feet at all.
There was a deafening silence in her ears—there was no other way to describe it; her ears rang but there was no sound, and when she struggled to push herself upright on her elbows, both ears popped with a viciousness that made her cry out; she clamped her hands to her ears, then fearfully removed them, terrified she wouldn’t be able to hear anything. And indeed, the terrible silence surrounding her made her heart seize up, and she was sure she was deaf. Until, from outside the haystack, she heard a hawk’s cry.
She struggled up until she was sitting; her limbs felt frozen—her knees were locked, and painfully she maneuvered them, bending them. But her feet—she watched them with detachment, as if they no longer were part of her—were sticking out of the haystack. They were feet, they were clad in the boots she’d put on yesterday morning, but were they really hers? She painfully tried to pull them inside the stack, and she could, but there was no feeling at all below her knees, and she wondered how she would get Minna and Ingrid to safety, which couldn’t be far away. After all, they were in a haystack, so they must be near a barn. And a house.
“Minna, Minna darling, Ingrid, wake up.” Her voice was hoarse, a croak, and she was desperately thirsty; she couldn’t remember when she last had a drink of water, or a morsel of food. But she must get help for the girls, who were still sleeping; she glanced at the two, merely lumps of clothing, curled up in slumber. She decided to let them remain asleep; it was better for them, given how weak and hungry they must be.
Now that the storm had stopped, she would be able to find her way back to them. So it was up to her, alone, to venture outside the shelter of the stack; it was up to her, alone, to find help.
Where was Tiny? Where had he spent the night? The thought blinded her, like a flash of lightning; she saw him, in the same flash, running away, shouting at that horse, chasing it into the vortex of snow and wind. He had left her, left the girls, to fend for themselves. He had abandoned her, as she knew, deep down, he always would. Whether for a horse or for an adventure, he would have left her eventually. The absence of him—for if he had survived, she would nev
er be able to look at him in the same way again, so either way, he was lost to her for good—shocked her. He had been the stock of all her dreams these past few months; all her plans for the future included him. Now she must start over; she would have to find new castles to build.
And a strange foreboding also rattled her chest: What of the children she had so blithely sent home?
For a second her breath caught on the suggestion of loss beyond anything she could comprehend, her own actions the reason why. She shut her mind to it, lest it overwhelm her. She must think now only of Minna and Ingrid, so inert in their sleep. Their ordeal must have taken such a toll on them, no wonder they slept so soundly.
Turning about was painful—she cried out, but the girls didn’t appear to hear—as sharp daggers slaughtered her knees. She was afraid she might break them, and she wondered about that—could a kneecap break? She’d never heard of such a thing, but every inch of her felt as brittle as thin glass. Still she had to get out of here, somehow.
Finally, she maneuvered herself until she was on her hands and knees, her lower legs dragging behind like sled runners as she crawled out of the haystack. The unfiltered air made her gasp, made her bronchial tubes seize up, her nostrils freeze; she had to pant to get any of that icy hot air inside her lungs. The blinding sun, the dazzling white snow—her eyes began to smart, to tear up, and she shut them, feeling tears roll and then freeze on her cheeks. Her ears began to burn, but she crawled away from the haystack with her eyes still squeezed shut; she crawled for a few more yards then dared to pry open her eyes once more, steeling herself for the shock of the sun—
And when she saw the house only twenty-five yards or so away, she shouted with all her might as she crawled, one painful movement at a time, toward it. It was the girls’ house, for heaven’s sake! All this time, shelter had been only one last march away, but they hadn’t known. All this time, as the girls’ parents must have been frantic with worry, their daughters were freezing in one of their own haystacks. There was no irony left in Gerda, for she couldn’t bring herself to laugh about it. All she could do was inch forward like a wounded animal, her hands in the snow, no feeling left in them, her feet just dead things attached to her legs, shouting with all her might, knowing her voice wouldn’t carry, not even in the frigid morning air that amplified everything else—that hawk circling above, still crying, the rustle of a frozen tumbleweed scooting over the snow, a faint, chirping sound, like a mouse that had found himself, unwillingly, forced out of his nest.
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