This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 1994 by Joan Lowery Nixon and Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc.
Cover illustration copyright © by Colin Backhouse
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York. Originally published in hardcover by Delacorte Press, New York, in 1994.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-385-31170-0 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-440-21935-4 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-307-82751-7 (ebook)
First Delacorte Press Ebook Edition 2013
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
To Karen Nelson Hoyle,
curator of the Kerlan Collection,
Children’s Literature Research Collection,
University of Minnesota,
in appreciation of her long dedication and devotion
to children’s literature
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
CHAPTER ONE
KRISTIN Swensen tossed her long blond braid over her shoulder and braced herself against the sides of the wagon. Its wheels thumped and jolted in the road’s holes and ruts and Kristin could barely hear her father describing the land he had purchased.
“It has good, fertile soil,” he told his wife, who sat beside him. “The property slopes down to the lake, and part of it is forested with pine, fir, oak, and maple.… I even saw some tamarack and ash—”
“Pappa,” Kristin interrupted, “I want to hear about the house. You said there was already a house and barn on the property. Is it a real house? I mean, like our house in Sweden?”
Her father, perched high on the wooden wagon seat, twisted to look down at Kristin. He managed an impatient smile and said, “It’s a simple two-story house, and it will be what we make of it. Now … will you allow me to tell this in my own way?”
Turning back to Kristin’s mother, he said, “It’s too late in the season to plant an early wheat crop, and even a little late for corn, so our first crop will be summer potatoes. I’ve heard of a young man we can hire to help me prepare the ground for the potatoes and for your kitchen garden.”
Kristin sighed impatiently. At the moment she wasn’t interested in crops. She tried to picture the house, imagining the parlor with colorful trasmattor covering the gleaming, polished wood floor. She imagined chairs filled with pillows, their covers and throws woven of the brightest yarn. There’d be a loom in one corner, which Mamma would use during the long, bright summer evening hours before bedtime, and probably at the back of the house there would be a large indoor-outdoor pantry, much like the one they had in Sweden. She wondered if her bedroom would face the morning or the evening sun, and she wished for cool breezes to float through the open windows on summer nights.
Many people in the Great Rock Lake area of Minnesota had helped to welcome the newcomers, such as the shopkeepers, Oscar and Edla Lundgren, who had shared their living quarters above the store until the Swensens purchased land and a house. There’d been many new names and faces during the next few days—the Youngdahls, the Carlsons, the Stenborgs, the Berglunds, whose daughter Jenny was Kristin’s age—and Kristin had noticed that each house they visited was decorated exactly as it would have been in Sweden. The food was the same. Even the language was the same. Pappa had insisted that his whole family learn to speak English before coming to the United States, yet so far everyone Kristin had met in the St. Croix Valley had spoken Swedish to her.
There was a lull in her parents’ conversation. “While we’re together,” Kristin suggested, “why don’t we speak to each other in English? If we don’t use the language, we’ll forget what we’ve already learned.”
Mamma put her hands to her face. “Later, Kristin,” she said. “I can’t concentrate in English, and there is too much in our new home to think about.”
As they reached the top of a low hill, Pappa pointed ahead and to the left. “There it is,” he said proudly. “There is our land.”
A meadow, lush with green spring grass spread like a thick and lumpy blanket in its mounds and valleys, lay between the dirt road and a green forest beyond. Two thick planks bridged the fast-flowing stream that had carved a deep, twisting bed through the meadow.
“Where is the house?” Kristin asked eagerly.
Pappa laughed. “This parcel contains more land than I originally had in mind to buy. We’ll soon come to the house.”
The road curved and passed another uncleared clump of trees. Finally their new home stood before them.
Built of weathered raw lumber, the narrow house loomed two stories high over a tangle of scraggly weeds that must once have been a vegetable garden. The windows of the house were streaked and crusted with dirt; the summer kitchen squatted at one side like an old, tired troll. Remnants of a bird’s nest hung from the top of the central chimney, and a few bricks had fallen from the chimney that poked through the roof of the summer kitchen.
“Well,” Mamma said weakly. “Well. The house is very …” She clung to the wagon seat, unable to speak.
“It’s ugly as a witch at midnight,” Kristin said, “but at least it’s a house.” She hopped from the wagon and strode to the front door. “The door’s unlocked,” she called out, her hand on the knob. “Come, Mamma. Let’s take a look inside.”
Kristin’s mouth opened with surprise as she stepped into the front room of the house, but she closed it quickly, batting a spiderweb away from her face. The room was furnished. Stained wooden chairs, their high backs against the walls, were grouped around an upholstered sofa. A table, protected from the oil lamp that centered it by a lacy crocheted runner, also held what looked like a family Bible and two small prayer books. The fireplace was large and deep, and next to it was tucked a cradle. But everything was covered with inches of dust and grime, and the lace curtains at the windows hung in rotted strips.
As Mamma stepped into the room beside her, Kristin took her hand and squeezed it. Trying to make her voice cheerful, she said a little too loudly, “Look! The house is furnished. Isn’t it wonderful that we won’t have to buy or build any furniture?”
Mamma studied the contents of the room. Then she asked, “Linnart, who lived in this house?”
Pappa joined them, stamping his feet as though he could shake loose the blanket of dust and make it disappear. “Why does it matter?” he replied with obvious discomfort.
“It matters,” Mamma said stubbornly. She pointed toward the cradle. “There was a child—perhaps more than one. And look at the cloth in the loom—a woman was interrupted at her weaving. The people who lived here left suddenly without taking their possessions.” Mamma’s voice became sharper. “What happened to them?”
Pappa took a deep breath. Almost running his sentences together, he answered, “The wife and two children took ill with diphth
eria and died. The husband had no more desire to remain. He turned the deed over to his cousin, who lives in Hay Lake, and left Minnesota. He never came back.”
Mamma shivered and looked to each side. “There may be spöken in this house.”
Kristin, well aware of her mother’s belief in ghosts, moved a step closer to her. Every old castle in Sweden was supposed to be haunted by spöken, and this dusty, gloomy house also seemed a likely place. But her father answered firmly, “No, Gerda. There are no spöken here.”
“We can’t be sure.”
Papa interrupted. “Sweden may be filled with ghosts, but we have left them behind. This country is too young to have ghosts.” He smiled as he said, “We are more likely to have one of the little tomtun living here, protecting our house.”
“A tomte will stay only if we remember to put out a bowl of rice pudding on Christmas Eve for it,” Kristin said, glad for the change of subject. Even though many people in Sweden believed in spöken, long ago Kristin had tried to convince herself that there were no such things as ghosts. It was just that talk about them made her nervous. She walked past her parents to peer into the kitchen.
Pappa said, “Upstairs there are two large bedrooms and a room for storage. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
Mamma glanced apprehensively toward the stairway. “I’ll see it soon enough. We had better get to work. There’s much to be done.” She began to roll up her sleeves as she gave directions. “The curtains will have to be thrown out, and we’ll get all the furniture out of the house and into the sunlight. A little oil rubbed into the wood will do wonders. That table—if you pick up one end, Linnart, and Kristin holds the other …”
“The beds are too large to carry down the stairs,” Pappa told her. “They’d have to be taken apart.”
“Then take them apart. And burn the mattresses and bedding.” Mamma hesitated. “I’ll make new mattresses. At the Lundgrens’ general store I saw some heavy cotton ticking, and it should be easy enough to get straw to stuff the casings.”
Kristin struggled to pick up one of the chairs, but her mother said, “Kristin! Get our things from the wagon. Put on your apron and kerchief before you do a single thing. Look at that dust! I saw a pump around back. See if it’s working. If not, look for a rain barrel. Or take the bucket and bring water from the stream. We’ll need lots of water and lye soap.”
The Swensens worked hard, rarely stopping—except for occasional drinks of water—until noon, when Mamma unpacked the hamper Fru Lundgren had given them. They sat outside on the grass and ate thick slices of bread, wedges of creamy cheese, and apples.
Kristin unbuttoned the top two buttons on her high-necked dress and fanned herself with one hand. “It’s so hot!” she complained.
Pappa nodded and said, “I was told the weather is unseasonable. It is quite warm for May, but it should cool down before long.”
“I wish it would cool down this very minute,” Kristin said, longing for Sweden’s chilly weather. She stood up and squirmed as rivulets of sweat trickled down her back, making it itch.
As she picked up the bucket, Pappa said, “Take a few minutes to rest, Kristin. You’ve been working very hard.”
“I’d like to finish. I’ve scrubbed every inch of the parlor, from ceiling to floor, and the kitchen comes next.”
Mamma spoke up. “Your father is right. You’ve just eaten. You’ll get a stitch in your side if you don’t rest.”
“It’s too hot.”
“Then go for a walk under the trees,” Pappa told her. “If you follow that path, it will take you to the lake.”
Kristin, eager to see more of their land, put down the bucket and headed for the forest.
It was much cooler under the trees. The path was overgrown in places, but Kristin easily made her way through the woods, stopping only when she reached Great Rock Lake, which was so large, the trees that bordered the far side were a dark green blur. Ducks paddled far out on the water, and the larger, web-footed loons dove for fish near wooded islands that broke the glittering expanse of blue. Close at hand Kristin saw a small, crescent-shaped beach, and beyond it a quiet pool.
On hot summer days in Sweden the local boys often threw off their clothes and splashed in the lake when no one else was around. Kristin always envied them this freedom. She laughed and looked around, then began to unbutton her dress. This secluded spot was hers alone. Now it was her turn to enjoy the cool water. There was no one to see her, no one to find out. She quickly stripped off her shoes and her dusty, sweat-stained clothing and flung herself into the water.
It was so cold, she yelped, trying to catch her breath, but as she rubbed her arms and legs, her body quickly grew used to the chill. She kicked and splashed, holding her nose and submerging, her loosened hair floating like a pale cloud above her. She was a magical water sprite; she was a fish. This was her own private pool, and she never wanted to leave it.
“Kristin! What are you doing?”
Startled, Kristin pushed aside her wet hair that was plastered over her eyes and looked toward the beach where Jenny Berglund stood watching, her blue eyes wide with astonishment, her hands pressed to her reddened cheeks.
Kristin had liked Jenny when she’d first met her at the Lundgrens’ store. Jenny had a broad smile and the way the tip of her nose tilted upward, Kristin thought she looked like a wood sprite plotting mischief. Kristin had hoped they could be friends. Embarrassed at being caught, Kristin curled up tightly, keeping the water all the way to her chin, and tried to look nonchalant. “I’m cooling off in the lake,” she said.
Jenny pointed at the heap of clothing lying on the ground. “But you … you have no clothes on.”
“Clothes would get waterlogged and weigh me down. It’s much nicer without clothes.”
“It is?” Jenny’s eyes met Kristin’s with interest, and she took a step closer. “But what if someone should come along while you were … were … in this state of undress?”
“Someone just did,” Kristin said, her discomfort increasing. “You did. You aren’t going to tell, are you?”
“Never!” Jenny held a hand over her heart. “You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met. You’re the most interesting person.”
Kristin felt a surge of hope. Maybe Jenny would be a good friend even though they just met. Kristin had a wonderful thing happen to her on the sea voyage to America; she’d become friends with Rose Carney and Rebekah Levinsky. From totally different cultures, Ireland and Russia, Rose and Rebekah had accepted Kristin for herself, and she in turn had appreciated their individuality. They weren’t at all like the girls she had known in Sweden, who seemed to spend all their time learning to cook and bake and embroider, giggling together about the young men they’d someday marry and scorning Kristin, who was proud that she could beat any boy in town at fishing or riding bareback.
“Mark my words, Gerda, your Linnart has given that girl much too much freedom,” Kristin had overheard her aunt, Hedvig, caution. “She’s sixteen—close to seventeen—and in a year or two you won’t find a father in Leksand who’ll consider a match between your tomboy Kristin and his son.”
“I know, I know. Linnart has recognized his mistake,” Mamma had said, and Kristin flinched at the discouragement in her mother’s voice. “From the time Kristin was very young, he let her work beside him and talked to her about farming and politics—all things he would have discussed with a son if he’d had one.” Mamma had paused for just an instant, and when she spoke again, her words were filled with hope. “Maybe we can give Kristin a second chance at making a good marriage. Linnart has a dream of emigrating to the United States. Under socialism taxes are higher and higher in Sweden, and there is no longer great opportunity to buy and develop land. Perhaps in a new place Kristin could …”
Kristin had clapped her hands over her ears and had run out of earshot, hurt and unwilling to hear another word. A second chance indeed! Why should she have to be like all those girls who spent their entire
lives learning to be good wives? Why couldn’t she be liked for who she was and not frowned upon because her embroidery stitches were too long and her cakes didn’t rise? Was that Mamma’s dream—to marry off her daughter? Well, the last thing Kristin would accept was an arranged marriage to someone she didn’t like. When and if she ever wanted to marry, she was determined to make that decision to please herself.
The water was beginning to feel colder, and Kristin wanted to get out. She wished Jenny would go back to the house.
Jenny suddenly gasped and said, “Oh, Kristin, your mother sent me here to get you and bring you right back. What if our mothers come looking for us? You’ll get into trouble!”
At the thought of what her mother and Fru Berglund would say, Kristin struggled to her feet.
Jenny whirled around and covered her eyes, not moving until after Kristin assured her, “It’s all right. I’m dressed.”
Jenny turned and said nervously, “They’ll guess what happened. Your hair is dripping, but your clothes are dry.”
“Oh,” Kristin murmured. “I didn’t think about that.” Both girls stiffened as they heard voices on the trail.
“They should be down at the lake, Fru Berglund,” Mamma was saying. “Linnart said to take this trail and we’d soon find them.”
Without a word to Jenny, Kristin picked up her skirts and leaped into the lake.
CHAPTER TWO
KRISTIN struggled to her feet just as her mother and Fru Berglund came into view.
Mamma ran forward, crying, “Kristin! What happened to you?”
Kristin shrugged. “One minute I was standing here. The next minute I was in the water.” She pushed her dripping hair away from her face and bent to wring out her heavy, waterlogged skirt. She avoided meeting Jenny’s eyes. She knew she’d laugh.
Fru Berglund immediately took charge. She removed her shawl and wrapped it around Kristin’s head and shoulders. “You must get back to the house and into dry clothes,” she said. “Jenny and I brought your family a crock of hot potato soup, and that should help.”
Ellis Island: Three Novels Page 27
