Mr. Swensen, who had gone ahead to inquire about their train, elbowed his way back through the crowd, beaming. “Hear what they say about Minnesota: ‘One immense empire of mineral, timbered, and agricultural wealth, waiting only to be occupied.’ Was I not right to bring us here?”
Mrs. Swensen nodded yes, but Kristin said, “Pappa, we can’t be sure until we arrive and see for ourselves.”
Still smiling, Kristin’s father answered, “We will soon be on our way to discovering the answer. Come. This way. Our train will leave in less than an hour.”
“How long will it take to get to Chicago?” Rose asked.
“Chicago is around eight hundred and fifty miles or so. It will take a little more than two days and nights—we’ll arrive the morning of the third day.”
Nearly three days! Rose had not thought about where Chicago was located. It would be a long journey. She was again furious with her uncle. She’d left everything up to him. She was even more grateful to be with the Swensens.
“Let’s move on now,” said Mr. Swensen. Mrs. Swensen and Kristin hurried after him, Rose straggling along in the rear with her heavy suitcase.
Suddenly Rose felt a tug on her suitcase and whirled to see a smiling young man who was trying to pry her fingers from the handle of the case. With his free hand he tipped his cap and said, “I’ll carry this for you, miss.”
“I thank you, but I can carry the case myself,” Rose told him.
The man’s grip didn’t loosen. “I’m no fool. If you think you’ve found a way to steal my belongings, then you’ve made a big mistake,” Rose announced.
He tugged, but Rose was faster and kicked with all her strength at his shins. Then she balled her fist and smashed it into the bridge of his nose.
As the man let out a yell and jumped back, he released the suitcase and grabbed at his bleeding nose. Rose clutched her suitcase against her chest and used it as a ram to open a path through the milling passengers as she scurried after her traveling companions who were now up ahead.
Rose and the Swensens entered one of the railway cars for those who had paid lower fares and stowed their belongings and the packages of food they had purchased for the trip under the hard wooden seats. Rose and Kristin huddled together, noses pressed against the window.
Before long the train reached stretches of open country, and the tracks wound through rolling hills, past stands of aspen and pine, birch and maple. Scatterings of small yellow-and-white wildflowers appeared as bright surprises, and the large fields on the occasional farms they passed were pale green with newly sprouted seedlings.
“Look at the size of the farms!” Rose exclaimed. “These must all belong to titled landowners.”
“There are no titles in the United States.” Kristin giggled. “It’s a democracy.”
Rose laughed, too. “There’s not a farmer in Ireland with more than a dollop of this much land. Only the wealthy English who stole the Irish estates have farms like these.”
Kristin raised one eyebrow. “Stole?”
“Stole,” Rose said firmly, “along with deroofing our churches, destroying our forests, and killing our game. For years the Irish were not even allowed to go to school, so some of them—like my parents—learned in secrecy to read and write.”
“That’s terrible!” Kristin exclaimed.
“Terrible—yes! But someday Ireland will be ours again.”
“Are you talking about war?”
“May heaven protect us, I hope there’ll be no war with its maimings and killings!” Rose shuddered as she said, “A man on the farm next to us was caught in the Clan na Gael bombings in Britain in the eighties. He was left blinded, and his face was so horribly disfigured from his burns that little children run in terror when they see him coming. Ma says that peaceful discussion is the only answer, not violence, and I agree with Ma. My brothers and father talk about rousting the English by force. I love Ireland, but sometimes I’m frightened to think of what might happen.”
“You don’t have to be frightened here. This is America,” Kristin said, and for a moment the two girls were silent, looking out at the farmland.
“In Ireland we lived on a farm,” Rose said, and her throat tightened as memories filled her mind. “Our house was small, with a thatched roof, but the peat-burning stove and the fireplace kept it snug and warm. On cold nights Ma would heat bricks in the ashes and wrap them in towels, then tuck them in our beds to warm our toes.”
Kristin nodded. “We had foot warmers, too.”
“For a while we had three cows—now only one—and I’d lead them down the lane and over the hill to graze by the lake,” Rose said. “Any neighbors who were working their crops would straighten and wave, maybe even come over to lean on the fence for a moment to chat.” She smiled. “Old Mrs. O’Malley, may she rest in peace, always had a bit of gossip to pass along.”
“Our neighbors in Sweden never stopped their work to talk,” Kristin said, “but we all met at the Lutheran church each Sunday, and there were dinners and festivals. We had socials at our school, too.”
“But no dances, you told us.”
“That’s right. Our pastor didn’t approve. He was very strict, and when he hit the edge of his desk with his stick even the worst boys in class paid attention.” She giggled and turned to Rose. “But I liked school. I really did. Did you?”
“Yes,” Rose answered. “I went to school at the convent in Drogheda. Sister Rita was probably as strict as your pastor, but she was generous with praise and hugs. She begged us all to go on to higher education when we reached the age of fourteen, but how could we? None of us could afford it. The few secondary schools were in the cities.”
“Cities offer so much that people living on farms can’t have,” Kristin said.
Rose smiled. “I’m the one who’ll be living in a city, and you’ll be on a farm. It seems as though we’d gladly change places.”
Kristin’s sigh was her only answer as she pressed her nose against the dusty glass window and stared out at the countryside.
As the train chugged across the state of Pennsylvania and through upper Ohio and Indiana, the hard benches and the constant swaying and lurching were uncomfortable. At each stop passengers would scramble down the steps, eager to move about and stretch sore muscles. Some depots served hot food, but those travelers who ran inside to order complained later that the service was so slow they had barely been served before the whistle on the train blew long blasts to signal its departure.
Rose was content with the chunks of bread, cheese, salted ham, and apples that Mrs. Swensen had packed, gladly paying her share of the cost to Mr. Swensen, even though Kristin muttered embarrassed remarks about it.
Although she was stiff from trying to sleep sitting up on the hard seats, Rose perked up as a porter walked through their car early the third morning and announced, “We’ve crossed into Illinois. We’ll be in Chicago shortly.”
Rose and Kristin hurried to the washroom at the end of the car, where they scrubbed their arms and faces in the small basin and brushed their hair.
Rose tied a clean kerchief over her hair and studied her reflection in the mirror. She was no longer a twelve-year-old girl; she was grown, nearly a woman. Da would be surprised at how she had changed. But he would have changed, too. Was his hair still thick and black? His shoulders as broad and strong? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture her father, Peter Carney, as she had last seen him, but she saw only a blur.
The jolting of the train threw her off balance, and she grabbed Kristin for support.
“You look fine,” Kristin told Rose. “Now hurry. We want to look out the windows and see as much of Chicago as we can.”
They squeezed past the conductor and the people around him who shouted in a variety of languages.
A short, plump woman pushed a card at Rose. Rose read what was printed on the card: To the Conductor: Please show bearer where to change trains and where to get off, as this person does not speak English. Bearer i
s bound to Chicago, Illinois. Underneath was the name of a civic league for immigrants.
Rose smiled and nodded. “We are coming into Chicago,” she said slowly.
The woman grasped the one word she understood. “Chicago?” she echoed.
“Yes.” Rose nodded and pointed to herself. “Chicago. I’m going to Chicago, too. I’ll tell you when we get there.”
The woman took her seat, but she kept her eyes on Rose.
As she sat next to Kristin, Rose murmured, “Another good-bye. First Rebekah, and now you.”
“We’re friends. We’ll write,” Kristin said emphatically. “We’ll see each other again.” But tears ran down her cheeks, and she buried her face against Rose’s shoulder.
The train began to slow. As Rose held Kristin tightly, she saw that they were passing clusters of buildings, their dark-red brick covered with layers of soot. Leonard Seed Company, Platt’s Oysters … tracks and more tracks … open grain cars on sidings … until finally the train crawled, ducking under a covered shed, and stopped, its brakes squealing loudly.
The plump woman pecked at Rose’s shoulder. “Chicago?” she asked.
“Yes, Chicago,” Rose answered. She struggled to her feet and gave Kristin one last hug. “Don’t forget to send me your address as soon as you have one.”
She shook hands with Mr. Swensen, but Mrs. Swensen cupped Rose’s face with her hands and examined it. “You are pale,” she said. “Do you feel ill?”
“No,” Rose said and took a deep breath. “The truth is I’m more than a bit nervous about seeing my father again.”
“Will he be here to meet you?”
“No,” Rose said, “but I have his address. I’m certain there’ll be plenty of good-hearted people who will help me find my way.” She wished she felt as brave as her words. Her stomach hurt and it was hard to breathe, but she realized there was only one thing to do—leave the train and find her father’s home.
Rose hoisted her suitcase and descended the steps of the railway car. From the wooden platform, Rose glanced at the steepled and gabled dark-brick station toward which the other passengers were hurrying. She followed them, pushed open a heavy door, and found herself in a massive, crowded, high-ceilinged room.
Rose looked for the woman who had asked her for help and was glad to see that she was surrounded by four tall young men who happily greeted her. When it was Ma’s turn to come she’d get a royal welcome, too.
But there was no one to meet Rose, and standing in the station gawking at the people around her wouldn’t accomplish anything. “Please, sir,” Rose called to a uniformed man who was striding past, “could you tell me where I …”
“Sorry,” he called over his shoulder as he kept going, “Got some folks waiting for a porter.”
Someone jostled her, and Rose staggered off balance. She regained her footing and looked around indignantly, but the person had gone. “Without so much as an apology,” Rose muttered to herself.
She made her way across the room and out the main doors onto the sidewalk. Carts and buggies passed at a steady clip, and an electric cable car rattled through the traffic. Draymen yelled at their horses, cab drivers shouted for passengers, and the hubbub was deafening.
Dublin was bad, but Chicago in 1902 was worse. Oh, if she could only go home and be with her mother and little sisters again!
CHAPTER TWO
AS a hand gripped Rose’s shoulder and spun her around, she shrieked and made a fist, but a grinning young man shouted, “Rosie, girl! It’s me! Johnny!”
“Oh, Johnny! I’m that glad to see you!” Rose cried. She dropped her suitcase and wrapped her arms around her brother’s neck, clinging tightly. “I didn’t know who to ask for help. I didn’t know where to go.”
She released her grip and stepped back, looking into his face. Johnny was more handsome than ever, with his laughing eyes and the dimple that flickered in his chin. Well dressed in a dark suit, stiff collar, and cravat, he wore a derby tilted rakishly over one eye. Nineteen now, wasn’t he? “You’re a wonder,” Rose said. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“Don’t give him any credit. Your uncle sent a telegram with the information.”
Rose noticed with surprise the tall, dark-haired young man about Johnny’s age who’d been standing off to one side. He smiled—a smile almost as charming as Johnny’s—and said, “I’m Timothy Ryan, Miss Rose Carney, and I came at your brother’s request to help him pick up and deliver what he called his ‘tag-along little sister.’ ”
“How’d I know you’d grown up, Rosie?” Johnny protested.
“I’m sorry you were put to the trouble, Mr. Ryan,” Rose said. “As for Johnny …”
“Call me Tim, not Mr. Ryan,” Tim said, and his smile deepened. “And please believe me, I’m very glad I came.”
Rose was glad, too, and on the cable-car rides—they had to transfer twice—she enjoyed being tucked between the two men, listening to their good-natured banter, sometimes being included.
Tim teased Johnny about his political ambitions being even greater than those of the alderman for whom they worked. Rose smiled, although the things they talked about were so new to her. “I get the feeling that you like living in Chicago,” she said.
“Like it?” Tim shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any in this country, but it can’t compare to home.” For a moment anger flashed in his eyes and he said, “Would any of us have left Ireland if the alternative hadn’t been starvation?”
Rose nodded. “It was terribly hard to leave, knowing I’d never see the country again.”
“I didn’t feel that way,” Tim said, “because I knew I’d be back.”
“You’re going back? When?”
“Soon, I hope,” Tim said. “When we have enough to make it worthwhile.” He looked over Rose’s head to Johnny.
“I don’t understand,” Rose told him.
“We’ll talk about it later.” Johnny took Rose’s hand and jerked her to her feet. “Here’s our stop,” he said and led her from the electric trolley across the dusty street to the sidewalk and over one block. A row of closely built, three-story wooden houses stretched down both sides of the street. They were almost identical, with steep stairways leading over half-buried first stories up to small porches and front doors.
“Isn’t it fine?” Johnny said as he led the way to the fourth house on the right. “We’ve got a flat all to ourselves, and close to the trolley line.”
Inside the house was another stairway leading to the top floor, but Johnny bypassed it, pulled out a key, and opened the front door to their flat.
“Who lives up there?” Rose asked.
“The O’Brien family,” Johnny answered, “and even though this is mostly an Irish neighborhood, there’s a Polish family—the Horbowys—below stairs. Nice people. You’ll have no trouble with any of them.”
People on top, people below. Rose felt strange, as though she were the middle of a sandwich. She took off her shawl and kerchief and laid them on the back of the nearest overstuffed chair as she surveyed the parlor.
“Sit down, Rosie,” Johnny said, “and I’ll tell you about a wondrous piece of good luck I was able to send your way.”
This place was nothing like their snug, cozy home in Ireland. Rose glanced around at the faded, dark-plush-upholstered furniture, the chipped tables, and the single framed print on the wall—a scene of the Irish shoreline north of Dublin—and said, “Can you let your good news wait a minute, while you show me where the stove is and I make us all a cup of tea?”
“You’re hungry,” Johnny said. “With all the excitement of greeting you, it never occurred to me that you’d be needing something to eat. All right, Rosie. I’ll show you your room and the kitchen, and I’ll wait until you’re enjoying your tea before I tell you my news.”
Rose’s room was plain and neat with a double bed, a small chest of drawers, and a wardrobe for hanging clothes. On the chest was a note with her name on it. Recognizing her father’s han
dwriting, she quickly tore it open.
Dear Daughter Rose, she read, I’m sorry I wasn’t at the train station to meet you. I have a good-paying job, and they’re not that easy to come by, so I must work. I’m sending Johnny to get you and bring you home. I’ll see you tonight.
Underneath was his formal signature, Peter John Carney.
Rose smiled at the signature. Her father was not a man who found it easy to say what was in his heart, but he had left the note to show his love, and Rose treasured it.
She put the envelope on top of her suitcase, which Johnny had slung on the bed, and followed him down the hall to a room at the back. It was large enough to hold an upright ice chest and a worn round oak table and six chairs. There was a small sink under a window and close by a gleaming, ornate stove.
Johnny smiled proudly. “Won’t Ma love that stove? It would have cost fifteen ninety-five if I’d bought it at Sears Roebuck, but I was able to get a terrific deal from one of the city suppliers. Can you believe it? Brand new and only ten dollars!”
Would Ma love that stove? Rose was sure Ma would miss her big, solid black iron stove and would have to get used to this shining, overdecorated monstrosity, but Rose was not about to let a stove intimidate her. She pushed up her sleeves and picked up the handle for the four round lids. As she slid the handle into the slot on the nearest lid and lifted it, she spoke with surprise. “The stove’s cold.”
“There’s no need to light the coal until you want to use it,” Johnny said and reached for a few sheets of newspaper and a box of matches.
“Coal? What are you saying? Where’s the peat?”
“In the United States they burn coal or wood, not peat.” He removed one of the stove lids, wadded up the newspaper, and stuffed it inside. He scooped some lumps of coal from the bin next to the stove and placed them on top of the newspaper before he dropped in the lighted match. He watched and waited until the newspaper caught and the coals began to glow.
“Are you telling me there’s no place around Chicago to dig blocks of peat and dry them?” Rose demanded.
Ellis Island: Three Novels Page 15
