Kristin went on to tell her grandmother she’d met a friend, Jenny, but sleep was so demanding that she promised herself she’d finish the letter the next evening. It would be ready for the mail packet Herr Lundgren took each week to the post office in Scandia. She crawled between the down-stuffed comforters that made up her pallet and slept soundly.
During the next two days Kristin and her parents worked from sunup to sundown on the house, stopping only to eat the midday food and take a short rest. Johan joined them, but there was little time for talk.
Finally the house was ready to live in. Pappa purchased a wagon and a large, strong horse to pull it, and Mamma packed their belongings. As Mamma and Fru Lundgren hugged each other tightly, the Swensens repeated the traditional words of gratitude over and over again: “Tack för i dag! Tack för i dag!”
Kristin and her parents arrived at their new home to find the windows shining in the late-afternoon sunlight, reflecting the greens and blues of the meadow and stream. Wide floor planks gleamed around the edges of two colorful rag trasmattor and one ryamattor with its woolly nap—a generous gift from Fru Lundgren and the ladies of Great Rock Lake’s Lutheran church. Cupboard drawers were packed with the Swensens’ linens and clothing, suits and dresses were ironed and hung in the wardrobes, food filled the shelves in the small pantry, and a vase of soft yellow dog’s-tooth violets adorned the parlor table. Kristin stood her Dala-horse in a place of honor on a low kitchen shelf.
To Kristin’s surprise Mamma unwrapped a plump apple cake, fragrant with nutmeg and cinnamon, and placed it in the center of the table. “We would not forget your birthday,” Mamma said with a smile. “Fru Lundgren baked this for you because I told her how much you’d miss your grandmother’s cake.”
For just an instant Kristin was surrounded by the warm, spicy smells of her grandmother’s kitchen. She saw Mormor lift the golden cake from the oven, top it with a special brown sugar, butter, and cream mixture, and return it to the oven to brown. Kristin heard her own laughter as—after everyone had eaten—she’d snatch up the extra piece Mormor always made sure was there and race from the house down the grassy slope to the lake, and she felt the soft sweetness of her grandmother’s arms around her in a special birthday hug.
Birthdays would never be the same.
Pappa beamed and reached for a knife to cut the cake. “Moving into our new home on Kristin’s birthday should be a good omen,” he said. He handed the first slice to Kristin. “Many happy wishes, daughter.”
“Thank you,” Kristin said, and tried to smile.
Mamma took a bite of her slice and exclaimed, “What a delicious cake!”
But it was not Mormor’s cake, and to Kristin it was heavy and lumpy and hard to swallow. She had expected America to be very different from Sweden, but here in Minnesota it was almost exactly like living in Sweden—only without her loving Mormor.
Mamma savored the last crumb of her cake and said, “Tomorrow we’ll see the Lundgrens at church.”
Kristin knew that her mother was looking forward to going to church for more than one reason. Mamma had met just a few of the women in Great Rock Lake; after church services she would be able to meet the rest of the women who lived in the area.
“Women need each other,” Mamma had once told Kristin. “Even though a woman’s life revolves around her husband, only another woman can truly understand how she thinks and feels.”
Kristin looked forward to seeing Jenny Berglund again … and to seeing Johan. He would be at church with his family, and perhaps during the afternoon they’d have a better chance to become acquainted than they’d had under the eyes of her parents. The mischief in Johan’s eyes intrigued Kristin.
By Sunday morning the heat had broken, and the air was cool and clear. The Swensens rose before the sun came up so that the animals could be well cared for and the necessary chores done before they left for church services.
“Pastor Jon Holcomb is somewhat different from the Lutheran pastors we knew in Sweden. He takes time to greet everyone after services and chat a bit,” Fru Lundgren had told them. “I remember that our pastor in Sweden always disappeared immediately after services. Anyone who wanted to talk to him had to make an appointment.”
Mamma had nodded. “Our dean was the same, a very formal but well-respected man.” She’d suddenly looked puzzled. “If this is how things are done in America, we will have to get used to it, but it will seem strange to chat with a pastor. What should we chat about?”
Fru Lundgren had smiled as she’d replied, “Never fear, Pastor Holcomb will pick a topic.”
The Swensens passed the grade school and the teacher’s quarters on their way to the Lutheran church, which stood high on a hill in the center of the town of Great Rock Lake. Beyond the church’s cemetery was an unpaved main street with wide wooden sidewalks on both sides. To the north was a blacksmith’s shop, a harness shop, a lumber company, and large lumber shed. Farther on were a mill, a grain elevator, and a large warehouse. To the south was the Lundgrens’ general store flanked by a milliner’s shop and the town bank. The names of the establishments, hand-painted in English, were only slightly more prominent than their proprietors’ Swedish names.
Nodding and smiling at occupants of the other wagons and buggies, even though many faces were unfamiliar, the Swensens made their way to the Lutheran church.
The frame church, painted white inside, with a colorful trim around the walls and behind the altar, was almost filled. Men and boys in dark suits sat on one side of the aisle, while on the other side sat the women and girls dressed in black or brown with hats or bonnets in the same dark shades. Only the small children, in their white dresses or rompers, brightened the somberly dressed congregation. As the Swensens arrived and an usher led them down the aisle to seats close to the front, Kristin felt all eyes upon them.
Mamma nodded politely to the woman seated on her left, and the woman nodded in return. Kristin, who had immediately spotted Jenny with her family, felt more at ease. She took one of her mother’s hands, which was damp with nervous perspiration, and stroked it gently. It’s all right, Mamma, she wished she could say. You’re a wonderful, kind, generous person, and these women will love you. You’ll soon have many new friends.
With a pang Kristin remembered the two good friends she had made on the ship coming to the United States. The voyage in steerage, with its stinking hold and miserable food, would have been unbearable without Rose and Rebekah. Kristin pictured the two of them: Rose, her red hair sparkling in the sunlight, and Rebekah, her smile warm and caring.
They had arrived at Ellis Island late in April. Surely by now Rose would be working to help bring her mother and younger sisters to Chicago, and Rebekah … Kristin hoped with all her heart that Rebekah was going to school, getting the education she wanted so much.
The promise Kristin had made that one day they’d all be together again was a promise she would never forget. It would happen. She would make it happen.
Kristin jumped as Mamma’s elbow jabbed her ribs. She came back to the present with a start and watched a large man with thick gray hair and a ruddy face stride to the altar—black robe flapping around his shoes. The members of the congregation rose to their feet, hymn books in hand.
They vigorously sang the Swedish national anthem, while a plump, dark-haired woman bent over the church organ, her elbows bobbing up and down like chicken wings as she played. A familiar Swedish hymn came next; then the service began. Eventually the pastor climbed the stairs to the pulpit and delivered a thunderous and overly long sermon about Judgment Day—in Swedish of course.
By the time the two-hour service ended, Kristin was so hungry, her stomach rumbled. Hoping that no one could hear it, she smiled and shook hands with countless people whose names she’d never be able to remember, until at last Pappa brought their basket of food from the wagon and they all joined the other families at tables and benches set out on the lawn.
Although from time to time Johan glanced over at K
ristin and smiled, he remained with his parents and his four younger brothers and sisters. Johan’s parents had been friendly when they’d been introduced. His father was a muscular, jovial man, his hair thinning to wisps on top; his mother, busily keeping her younger children in hand, let her husband do most of the talking.
Just as Kristin thought she couldn’t eat another bite, the Berglunds came to the Swensens’ table with ginger cake. In return Mamma passed a plate of the flaky butter cookies she’d been famous for at home.
“Come with me,” Jenny whispered to Kristin. “There are some friends of mine who want to meet you now, before the Young People’s Society has its get-together.”
She led Kristin past the carved stones in the church graveyard to a grassy, shaded knoll on which a group of girls—dressed properly in dark, high-necked, long-sleeved dresses—was seated. Kristin guessed that they ranged in age anywhere from fifteen to eighteen.
There was an excited murmur and wiggle as Kristin and Jenny approached. Kristin stopped and grabbed Jenny’s arm, nearly pulling her off her feet. “What have you told them about me?” she asked.
“Not much,” Jenny said, but her glance was evasive. “I haven’t known you long.”
“You didn’t tell them about my swimming in the lake, did you?”
“Don’t you think I can keep a secret?”
Unconvinced, Kristin asked, “Did you tell them I wore men’s clothing?”
“I didn’t promise to keep that secret,” Jenny said. Before Kristin could answer, Jenny exclaimed, “Oh, Kristin! You don’t know how exciting you are. We’ve never met anyone like you before.”
As Kristin and Jenny approached, the girls jumped up and clustered around them, introducing themselves.
“So tell!” a plump girl named Freda blurted out. She glanced at Jenny. “Jenny wouldn’t tell us what, but she said you do all sorts of interesting things, like wearing men’s clothes. What other exciting things do you do?”
“I’ve been working hard helping to get our house ready to live in,” Kristin said, evading the question. “I wouldn’t call that exciting.”
Ida, one of the pair of twins, looked disappointed. “We all help clean house. We want to know about the other things you do.”
Kristin decided she might as well discover right this minute if these girls would want to be her friends. “I like to fish,” she said, “and I like to ride bareback, and I hate to embroider, and I’m a terrible cook.”
Clara who was obviously the youngest of the girls, shrugged. “What’s so exciting about that?” she asked. “I don’t like to embroider, either, and sometimes I go fishing with my brothers.”
A couple of the other girls nodded agreement.
Kristin looked at them curiously, and asked, “Is it because you live in the United States? In my town in Sweden it’s so different. All the girls are supposed to do is learn how to be good wives and talk about getting married.”
Josie, who looked to be the eldest, answered, “What’s so terrible about learning how to cook and sew and wanting to get married?”
“We all want to get married,” a tall girl called Esther said. “Either a girl marries and has a husband to take care of her, or she’s an old maid.”
“That’s right,” Freda said.
From the expressions on the girls’ faces Kristin knew she was outnumbered, but she said, “Getting married is fine if you’re in love. In Sweden many marriages are arranged and a girl has to live with her parents’ choice.”
“Many marriages are here, too,” Jenny said, “but it’s not quite as common as my mother says it is in Sweden, thank goodness. I don’t think I’d like an arranged marriage.”
Clara grinned as she teased, “That’s because you’re always falling in love. It’s Paul, this time, isn’t it?”
“Never mind,” Jenny answered, and the others laughed.
“I like what I’m finding out about this country,” Kristin said. “I think women really must have more freedom here. I heard that in four western states—Wyoming, Colorado, Idaho, and Utah—women can vote. Do you know if that’s true?”
Esther made a face. “Of course we know that, but who cares? I don’t know why women would want to vote. Men take care of things like that, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re welcome to them.”
The twins nodded agreement, but Josie said to Kristin, “You sound like Fru Dalquist’s sister who visits here from Minneapolis. In fact, she’s here today. I saw her. She even gives speeches about how women in all the states should have the right to vote. My father says she’s crazy.”
“Who’s Fru Dalquist?” Kristin asked.
Ida broke in. “Fru Dalquist is our church organist. Her sister is named Sigrid Larson—Fröken Larson. She’s ages and ages old, and she never married.”
All the girls stared at Kristin. “Fröken Larson probably never wanted to marry,” she said.
“Every woman wants to marry,” Minnie—Ida’s twin—insisted.
“My mother’s aunt, Lucia, never married,” Freda said. “She went from her brothers’ houses to ours and back again, helping with the mending and the sewing and watching the children. Someone always had to take care of her because she didn’t have a husband to do it.”
“No one has to take care of Fröken Larson,” Jenny pointed out. “She teaches at the University of Minnesota.”
Kristin scrambled to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Jenny asked.
“Josie said she’s here,” Kristin explained. “I’m going to meet Fröken Larson.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE other girls followed Kristin back to the area where the adults were still chatting and eating, but they drifted away as Jenny took Kristin by the hand and led her to the table where Fröken Larson, a tall, thin woman whose blond hair was beginning to be streaked with white, sat beside her sister.
After the introductions came pleasantries. Kristin remarked on how well Fru Dalquist played the organ, and Fru Dalquist claimed she spoke for many when she said how pleased they all were that the Swensen family had chosen to move into their midst. Fröken Larson praised Fru Swensen’s butter cookies, and Jenny said she hoped Fröken Larson’s visit to Great Rock Lake would be a long and pleasant one.
“Please sit with us and visit,” Fröken Larson said.
As she scrambled over the bench and tugged her skirt into place, Kristin said in a quiet voice, “I was told that you believe that women should be able to vote.”
“Yes, I do,” Fröken Larson answered. “I’m one woman out of many who are working for national suffrage.”
Fru Dalquist rolled her eyes as she quickly jumped to her feet. “Please excuse me,” she said. “There is someone I must talk to.”
Jenny patted Kristin’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “Paul Erickson just arrived with some others from Scandia.” As an afterthought she asked, “Would you like to meet Paul?”
“Later, thanks,” Kristin told her.
Jenny grinned, and hurried in Paul’s direction.
Kristin leaned toward Fröken Larson. “Women are really working to get the vote nationally? How do they do this?”
Fröken Larson settled herself on the bench and asked, “Have you ever heard of Susan B. Anthony?”
“No,” Kristin answered.
“Miss Anthony believes so strongly that women should have the right to vote that she defied the law and was arrested and tried in court for her beliefs.”
Kristin gasped. It was hard to take this in; Mamma would never understand any of it. “What happened to her, Fröken Larson?”
Fröken Larson looked at Kristin with kindness as she said, “I believe we will be friends, Kristin, and friends should not be so formal, no matter how strong the traditions of our native country. Please call me Sigrid.”
“All right … Sigrid.” At least Kristin had met someone who was not afraid to break tradition. She wondered if Sigrid Larson had ever cooled off in a lake or worn men’s clo
thing. “Do you speak English?” Kristin asked.
“Of course,” Sigrid said. “I’m glad to discover that you do, too. That gives us one more thing in common.”
“Then could we speak in English, please?” Kristin asked. “I need the practice, and everyone here seems to want to speak Swedish.”
Still speaking Swedish, Sigrid answered, “While we are at this gathering, with many others around us, we should speak in the language they understand. We wouldn’t want them to think us rude in setting ourselves apart.”
Kristin wished she had thought of that before she had spoken. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I just don’t understand why the people who emigrated here don’t try to be like the rest of the people in the United States.”
“Like which people? The Germans, who have a large settlement of their own in Minneapolis? The Norwegians? The Italians? The French?”
Kristin was surprised. “Do you mean they speak their own languages? They don’t speak English?”
“Many of them learn English. They have to if they’re going to do business with the others, but they speak their native tongues in their homes. The children of the immigrants, however—many of whom were born here—are quicker than their parents in picking up the language.”
“But how can the children learn to speak English well if no one else speaks it?”
“By law, children learn English in school, but this is a Swedish community, Kristin. The people who live here came to this area to be among their own people, and they speak Swedish because they are comfortable with it. It’s also an important tie to the land from which they came. They don’t want to lose it, and they don’t want their children to lose it. You’ll find that a ‘Swede school’ is held each summer for school-age children so that they’ll be proficient in the language.”
Kristin still didn’t understand why people who chose to come to a new country tried to make it exactly like the country they had left, but she was more impatient to learn all she could about women’s suffrage. “Will you tell me more about Susan B. Anthony?” she asked.
Ellis Island: Three Novels Page 29
