Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “My father proposed to you? But why didn’t you say yes?”

  “I didn’t take it as a marriage proposal. I wasn’t even sure if he was serious—it sounded more like empty flirtation, not that I’d had any experience. I hoped he didn’t really expect me run away with him . . . out of wedlock. So I decided to laugh it off . . . make light of it, but Silvio didn’t laugh with me. My head suddenly felt swimmy, and I thought I should eat something. I reached for the buns, and he intercepted my hand. It was like an electric shock ran from my fingertips all the way down to . . .” She stopped and blushed again.

  “I owe my existence to a basket of buns,” I teased. “Then what happened?”

  “Tears came to my eyes.”

  “You were sad?”

  “I was confused. He kept hold of my hand as he rose from the chair and led me slowly from the table. I went along meekly. My legs felt wobbly . . . I almost collapsed. Silvio swooped me up into his arms as if I were a child—I hadn’t been lifted like that since I was a little girl. His arms were strong from hefting slabs of stone. He carried me as if I were a mere ragdoll, straight to Papa’s overstuffed armchair. He sat down with me on his lap and kissed me full on the lips . . . it was like heaven. I’d never been kissed before, but I caught on quickly.”

  I hung breathlessly on every word, vividly picturing the scene like a romantic movie.

  “And that was that.” She severed the magic moment; the screen in my mind’s eye faded to black.

  “What was that?” I asked, feeling as if a delicious meal had been snatched from beneath my nose.

  “You know what,” she said in embarrassment.

  “Right there, on Morfar’s overstuffed armchair?” I pointed in astonishment.

  “Ya.”

  “Uff da.”

  “Uff da,” she seconded. Alternating waves of pink and white washed over Gudrun’s face as she relived the opening of her flower after its overly long slumber.

  “Was it wonderful?” I asked, recalling the hullabaloo from within the Schimschack when John Wind paid a call on Anna.

  “The hugging and kissing was wonderful, but the other . . . well, the feelings were so powerful. Afterwards, I was scared to death.”

  “Scared of Silvio?”

  “Of the way I felt—the way I’d behaved with him. I was afraid because I’d lost self-control. I’d never had those feelings before. No one ever warned me. My mother had explained the facts of life, but never spoke about the feelings. No one I knew ever spoke of that. Papa never once mentioned the sexual act, and he certainly never asked me about the details,” she emphasized. “If he’d known about his chair, he probably would have dragged it outside and set it on fire.”

  I giggled at the image of my stoical Morfar, finding the chair an accessory to the act and condemning it to the flames. “When did you know you were pregnant?”

  “The very next morning. As soon as I opened my eyes, I just knew. And do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t sorry. Oh, I was terrified of what Papa would do. I knew I was in big trouble, and I knew it would be difficult—but I didn’t regret the life I felt within. Cassandra, I never regretted you, not for one single moment. I wanted you to know that.”

  “I know.” I smiled.

  “Well, is there anything else you’d like to ask?” she said kindly.

  “Tante, does it hurt to have a baby?”

  “I’m glad you asked. It seems that I inherited none of my mother’s problems. After all, I got pregnant so easily—the midwife said I was like a ripe pomegranate. And your birth was like passing a kitten.”

  “A kitten!” I marveled.

  “So, when the time comes for you to have a family, you needn’t worry. You’ll probably take after me, since you’re built like me. And your father . . . I mean, Silvio, was one of nine children,” she added pointedly.

  “Oh! I have so many aunts and uncles—maybe another set of grandparents, too. I wonder how many cousins I have. I probably have half-brothers and sisters. Did my father ever learn about me?”

  “Ya sure, he did. He sent me a letter with that picture shortly after he returned to Italy. He apologized for having to leave so soon and hoped to see me again. Silvio even asked if my father would allow me to visit if I stayed with his mother as chaperone. That’s when I knew he had deeper feelings for me . . . that it wasn’t just . . .” She grew flustered. “So, as soon as the doctor confirmed my pregnancy, I wrote back and told Silvio. I thought he should know. Well, the next thing I knew, there was an express airmail envelope with a money order inside . . . and a heartfelt proposal of marriage. But Silvio expected me to come live in Italy—it would be impossible for him to leave his work and family, and he couldn’t bear Wisconsin; too cold and so far from the ocean. Silvio had it all planned: we’d live at his uncle’s big house in Tuscany, where there were palm trees and sunshine. He’d already decided that I shouldn’t travel by plane because it might be bad for the baby. I was supposed to take a train to Boston and board a cargo ship for Brindisi—of course, I wouldn’t ride with the cargo. One of his brothers was the captain, so he’d put me up in a nice berth. Silvio wanted me personally looked after.”

  “Tante,” I whispered breathlessly, “why ever didn’t you go?”

  “I took a train to Boston. I stayed one night alone in a hotel . . . but I missed the boat.”

  “How did you miss the boat?” I asked incredulously.

  “I told your mother that the cab was late, but it wasn’t true. I panicked. I just couldn’t leave home . . . everyone I knew and loved. Besides, Eddie was an infant, and your mother needed me. I would’ve missed her terribly. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I love her dearly.”

  “You raised her,” I affirmed.

  “Yes, she’s like a sister and a daughter to me. I also knew that Papa would be terribly hurt if I up and left. I didn’t know if I could ever see him again under the circumstances; I wasn’t sure he’d accept an Italian husband . . . a prejudice I certainly did not share. What worried me most of all is that I didn’t really know Silvio Salvatore. What if his family didn’t like me? What if we didn’t like each other once we got married? We’d never even had a proper conversation—Silvio must’ve gotten someone to translate the letters because he spoke rather broken English. And he was a Catholic. What if I was expected to convert? The whole thing was much too risky.”

  “Ya sure, I suppose it would have been risky. It would have been hard to leave your family and live in a strange country. But do you think you loved him?”

  “I’ve asked myself that many times. I think he loved me . . . and I think I could have learned to love him. He was a noble man, after all. Another man might have run away, but he wanted to do the right thing. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to take such a chance,” her eyes glistened with tears at what might have been, “because sometimes, love just isn’t enough to make a whole life with someone.”

  34

  From Fjords to Flatlands

  “IN 1927, A very ordinary man by the name of Oddfrid Johan Sigurdsson sold his farm in Hordaland, where the Sigurdssons had raised sheep for five generations. Like thousands of his Norwegian brethren before him, he sought a more prosperous life for himself and his family in America; the capital from the sale made it possible for them to immigrate. Oddfrid was the youngest of three sons and as such, had never expected that the farm would be his to sell in the first place, a fact over which he’d secretly felt a twinge of bitter envy from time to time. However, things didn’t turn out as expected.

  “The cost of relocation was great and the preparations long in the making. Due to an unanticipated flux in the monetary conversion rate, the price of steamship passage alone was so dear that Oddfrid nearly lost his nerve at the ticket window.

  “If he had, just think what a different story we’d be telling now,” AuntGudrun looked up from her manuscript and interjected. “Fortunately, he was able to keep a level head; he calculat
ed that although he would have less money left over than was previously planned, it would still be enough. And so, with every ounce of the old Viking blood that flowed through his veins, he conquered his angst and laid down his hard-earned kroner. When it was done, Oddfrid Johan Sigurdsson knew that he held in his hand far more than tickets: it was the paper on which was writ his fate, along with that of his wife, Klara, and twelve-year-old daughter, Gudrun. Soon they would embark upon a great journey across the Atlantic. The only certainty was that nothing would ever be the same.

  “It was a remarkable undertaking for a rather unremarkable man. For most of his thirty years, Oddfrid had lived a quiet life in the country. He was not in any way distinguished, a fact he had accepted from a very young age. He looked like most Norwegian men, with a head of thick straw-colored hair that tended to mat under his cap and eyes the color of a summer sky. His pale face and forearms burnt in the sun, but beneath his clothing he was white as cream and nearly hairless. At five feet eleven inches he was tall, but not strikingly tall compared to his countrymen. A life of hard work had made him sinewy, calloused, and strong enough; but when a neighbor needed help to lift something very heavy, or get a wagon wheel unstuck from the mud, Oddfrid was not the first man in the parish who came to mind.

  “In character, Oddfrid was a moral and honest man, having been brought up a strict Lutheran. He knew the fear of God, and his conscience stood over him like a master with a whip. In his entire life he had only slipped once, and then it was with thoughts, not deeds; still, it troubled him until the day he died. In temperament he was peaceful, definitely not bold, and tending toward caution and reticence—sometimes teetering on the edge of cowardice. It was a flaw he despised in himself and so fought it with all his might. He was not particularly clever, but he was far from dull-witted. In the end, his one outstanding trait was that he applied himself to all that he did with a powerful will, making up for what he lacked in brains, brawn, and bravery with sheer tenacity. When all is said and done, that’s about the best anyone can do.

  “Oddfrid was brought up to farming but was apprenticed to a saddle and harness maker in his youth. He was barely fourteen when his eldest brother made the arrangements. Sjurd was fifteen years his senior and more like a father than a brother, since their father had died when Oddfrid was a small boy. When the day came for him to go, Oddfrid didn’t want to leave his home; he was ashamed to admit it, but he wasn’t ready to leave his mother. Sjurd steadfastly insisted that it was necessary for him to learn a trade because the farm would never support three families. Mrs. Sigurdsson stood silently by with her hands in her apron pockets, while her young son’s tearful protestations fell upon Sjurd like rain washing over a great stone.

  “The middle brother, Gunnlagur, was just eighteen months younger, but Sjurd towered over him in height and governed him as if he were a child. Gunnlagur grew up shrouded by Sjurd’s imposing shadow, and his personality suffered for it. He was even more unremarkable than Oddfrid. To please his brother, Gunnlagur developed early the habit of obedience, silently performing whatever work was required of him like a beast of burden accepts the yoke.

  “Perhaps because he had shouldered the responsibility of a grown man while still so young, Sjurd was an exceptionally hard worker and expected as much of his two brothers. He was unwavering in the face of hardship and by nature seemed to brace for it at every turn. Sjurd was not given to dancing or frivolous merrymaking and appeared to be a confirmed bachelor. Although he was reserved to the point of being aloof, the eldest Siggurdson brother was considered by his community to be a good neighbor, never turning away any man who came to solicit his help or advice, which they often did. He was a great ox of a man and as clever as he was strong.

  “At the end of a day when his back was no longer bent in labor, Sjurd was wont to sit with knitted brow and smoke his pipe, not uttering a word until he bade his mother goodnight with a slight nod of deference. When the weather was fine, he generally sat outside on a hard wooden bench by the front door, looking off toward the late-night Scandinavian sun. In the cold, dark winters, he stared into the fire and silently deliberated, over what no one knew, for his family dared not disturb him. Even his mother was respectful and gave her eldest son his solitude. It wasn’t that Sjurd was in any way abusive, but his taciturn nature put one on edge; his hard look of disapproval was enough to curdle milk.

  “Away at his apprenticeship, Oddfrid longed to return to his boyhood home. The work was hard, and his master was exacting. Oddfrid’s hands ached and before they became calloused, his fingers were rubbed raw from pushing the needle through the tough leather—when he got to practice stitching at all. He spent much of his first year making thread from flax and beeswax, alone at the back of the workshop with no one to talk to.

  “To get the most of his cheap labor, the master craftsman first set young Oddfrid to repairing the heavy work boots worn by local farmers. He developed a real knack for it; they said he could make a pair of boots last forever, utilizing the roughest scraps of leather. Naturally, before he was allowed to work on new saddles and tack, he learned to mend the old. These were skills he later felt very lucky to have, as he intended to ply his trade in America and stood to make good money at it. Oddfrid couldn’t know it yet, but when the Great Depression struck, he would be even more thankful for having been put to such menial tasks. He would manage to keep his head above water by repairing old things, when few could afford to buy new. But he didn’t always feel so lucky.

  “As Oddfrid silently rolled the flax between his stiff fingers, he conjured only fond recollections of his old life. He sighed at the memory of riding over pasture lands to tend the sheep on Loki, the shaggy yellow Fjord horse. In his dreams it was always springtime, with new lambs bleating and birdsong on the wind. He forgot all about farming outside in the cold and deep snow, or in the driving rain. In his loneliness, he was even nostalgic for the smell of wet wool and sheep dung.

  “The food they gave him was not so bad, but in the three years he labored, he never felt fully sated. It was cold—Norway is cold—and his garret room was not well heated by the scant allowance of coal for the small brazier. He had coal enough so as not to freeze to death, but never enough to feel warm and comfortable. As a result, he slept rather fitfully and often lay awake grousing over his lot.

  “One dreadful night in late winter, after more than three years as a poor apprentice, Oddfrid felt he could stand it no longer. He lay in his cold bed up in the harness-maker’s garret with a vague hunger in his belly that would be almost, but not quite, satisfied by the breakfast he would receive next morning. His thoughts drifted with painful longing back to the farm in Hordaland, to his cozy sleeping-place by the fire. He could almost taste the big bowl of warm porridge that his mother always made for him.

  “Oddfrid suddenly snapped bolt upright in the dark, clenched the sore fingers of his right hand and shook his fist violently toward the rafters. ‘Damn you, Sjurd! Damn you! Damn you straight to hell and a speedy passage, too!’

  “Before sunup next morning, Sjurd was dead. He was kicked in the head by a neighbor’s horse and fell like a stone in the straw by a pile of manure.

  “A distraught farmer had come to fetch Sjurd in the night when his young mare was in trouble birthing her first foal, which was stuck hind-end fore with one leg hanging out. Sjurd had just managed to extract the foal by securing a rope around the hind leg that was still lodged within and pulling with all his might as the owner held her head. In his haste to save the animals and unconcerned for his own safety, Sjurd had neglected to hobble the horse. The ordeal caused the terrified mare such agony that she, usually a sweet, well-mannered beast, struck out with a rear hoof like lightning. It caught Sjurd at the temple, killing him instantly. Both the mare and her foal were well.

  “The farmer wrapped Sjurd’s body in a good blanket and laid him on a clean bed of straw. He had no other horse and so for the second time that night, the unfortunate man ran forthwith to the Sigurdsson f
arm, far more distraught than the first time. He offered his sincerest apology to Gunnlagur and his mother and praised Sjurd for saving his animals. The Sigurdssons stood together in bewildered silence as the farmer explained that the mare was a fine Norwegian Fjord horse, bred to a registered stallion. He pledged to give them the valuable colt as soon as he was weaned. It wouldn’t make up for the loss of Sjurd, but it was the best the poor man could do.

  “It took two days for the dreadful news to reach Oddfrid; for the first day after the accident, everyone forgot all about him. His second cousin, Tarald, was finally sent to fetch him home and stood wringing his cap with tears in his eyes as he related the calamity.

  “At first, Oddfrid was struck dumb with confusion. Nothing seemed real as he struggled to understand the meaning of Tarald’s words. Sjurd was struck by a horse? Sjurd was no more? How could this thing have happened? Then he trembled all over; they said his face went white as a sun-bleached sail. Oddfrid felt as if the earth had quaked and was about to open up and swallow him whole, straight into the fires of hell without even stopping to die. His ears rang so loudly that he couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. The master hurriedly fetched a bottle of brandy, put it to Oddfrid’s lips and coaxed him to swallow, fearing that the shock might permanently rob the boy of his speech and senses. They were greatly relieved when young Oddfrid began to weep copiously, cry loudly, and call upon the Lord to help him. Naturally, they assumed his distress stemmed from profound brotherly love. Their admiration for his tender feelings and devotion to Sjurd made Oddfrid feel even worse.

  “Gunnlagur brought Oddfrid back to the family farm, the place to which he had so longed to return for the past three years. It was wonderful to be reunited with his mother, her warmth and good cooking. He ate until he was full and rolled out his straw mattress and feather bed by the fire once more, never again to be cold at night.