By the following day, the third-class passengers had further sorted themselves by language and nationality. Anna hovered near a group of Swedish girls, grateful for the familiarity of their conversation but unable to make an effort at friendship. The Swedish American steward who had become their unofficial guardian said they could send telegrams to their families, and the others eagerly scribbled messages on the notepad he provided. But Anna couldn’t find the right words. How could she tell her parents that Sonja and Emil were dead? And who would tell Josef?
In the end, Anna took the coward’s way out. She wrote down her father’s name and her hometown, then the words, I am safe. She did not send a telegram to Josef. She told herself she would write from New York, when she’d had time to order her thoughts.
But her thoughts were no less muddled when the Carpathia arrived in New York. The other Swedish girls had friends or relatives meeting them; Anna had no one. The mass of people she saw gathered at the pier shocked and alarmed her; how would she possibly get through? The steward told her that due to the special circumstances of their arrival and the outcry of public sympathy, the third-class passengers would be spared the usual processing at Ellis Island.
“Were you planning to travel on from New York?” he asked.
Anna said nothing. If she kept to her original plans and went to Minnesota, she would have to tell Josef his brother and future wife were both dead. She would always be a reminder of his terrible loss.
“The Swedish Immigrant Aid Society can help with arrangements,” the steward told her. “They’ll pay your train fare and give you food and new clothes. They might even be able to book your passage back to Sweden, if that’s what you prefer.”
Anna wished the man would simply tell her what to do, rather than give her the burden of deciding. He frowned, concerned, as the silence between them lengthened.
“I’ll stay,” Anna finally said. The choice was made as much from fatigue as anything else; Anna simply couldn’t face another sea voyage. But the image of Josef, grieving, exerted its own pull. Much as Anna dreaded telling him, it would be a kindness if he heard the news from a friend rather than a stranger. Just because she went to Minnesota didn’t mean she was going to settle there; she could always go home.
But even then, Anna’s hopes were scattering down paths of possibility she’d never admit to following. Josef, whom she still loved beyond all reason, wanted to be married. And now he had no wife.
In the chaos of unloading, Anna had lost track of Bridget and Mary, and she made her way alone to a pair of women holding signs in Swedish. Both had come from Sweden themselves, more than twenty years before. In America, they told her, new immigrants were taken under the wing of those who’d preceded them, each past generation lifting up the next.
One of the women took Anna to her apartment in a taxi; it was the first time Anna had ever ridden in a car. In the kitchen, a trio of girls stared at Anna wide-eyed, and the oldest asked bluntly if she’d been on the ship that sank. Their mother, thankfully, shooed them away and gave Anna their bedroom for the night. Sleep came blessedly quickly, though Anna wouldn’t have thought it possible. Perhaps it was the lingering smell of cabbage rolls, which reminded Anna of home.
After a breakfast of rye bread and cheese, Anna’s benefactor gave her the supplies for the next stage in her journey: train tickets to Chicago and Saint Paul, and a bag containing two dresses, undergarments, and a new pair of shoes. The woman’s daughters added a few of their hair ribbons. Anna tried to protest—it was far more than she deserved—until she was told the aid society had been inundated with donations for Titanic survivors. Everyone wanted to help in whatever way they could.
The train station was overwhelming, with crowds of people swarming in every direction. To Anna, it was a monstrous maze, where she might be propelled off course and herded onto the wrong track before she knew it. Hugging her bag in front of her with both arms, she found a porter and showed him her ticket. He looked her over, finding the result disappointing—there’d be no tip as a reward for this good deed—but grudgingly led her to the right platform. The train to Chicago wasn’t very crowded, and the only other travelers in Anna’s compartment were an older American couple, who were content to read once they learned she didn’t speak English. The husband nodded Anna toward a window seat, and it was there that she began her journey across America.
She thought of the other survivors, scattering in different directions like dragonflies creating whirling trails across a lake. The grief was still there, an eternal, unwelcome companion, but it no longer dragged at her heart. For the first time in days, she felt something close to contentment. She stared out the window, knowing she’d be expected to write Mama and Papa about her impressions of this new country. But all through Ohio and Indiana and Wisconsin, she saw only isolated images: red barns, smokestacks, fields reaching to the horizon. She couldn’t fit what she saw into a neat description.
Josef lived on his uncle Tomas’s farm outside Saint Paul, and in his last letter to Sweden before Anna sailed, Josef wrote that he had arranged rooms at a boarding house run by a Mrs. Norling, where he would meet them when they arrived. The Saint Paul train station was almost as busy as New York’s, but more welcoming to a girl who spoke little English. A ticket agent answered her hesitant questions in a flood of fluent Swedish; his mother, he told her, had emigrated from Halland thirty years before. The agent directed Anna to the streetcar stop out front and told her Mrs. Norling’s house was on Payne Avenue. It wouldn’t take long.
Anna took in the new city with nervous wariness, but her fear eased somewhat as she approached her destination. Payne Avenue was lined with Swedish businesses, from bakeries to dance halls, and though the buildings looked nothing like the village where she’d grown up, it felt like a homecoming. Here, she could read all the signs and ask for help without being stared at in confusion. She was no longer a stranger.
Mrs. Norling’s house was shabby compared to its neighbors, with peeling white paint that revealed strips of bare wood. The front steps tilted to one side, and the narrow front yard had more weeds than flowers. Still, it was palatial compared to Anna’s home in Sweden. She counted eight windows, up and down, and the front porch looked big enough to seat a dozen people.
Mrs. Norling opened the door and grimaced at Anna. It wasn’t what Anna expected from a woman who sold hospitality for a living, and she nervously explained who she was. Mrs. Norling sprang immediately to life, waving Anna inside as her head nodded up and down like a parrot’s.
“Oh yes, of course, come in,” Mrs. Norling said, leading Anna into the front parlor. “You poor little thing. And poor Josef. It’s been very difficult for him.”
Anna felt her chest tighten. Was Josef here?
“There’s been nothing but the Titanic in the papers for days! It’s all anyone’s talking about.” Mrs. Norling motioned toward an end table that was barely visible under a pile of newspapers. “I’ve saved them all, if you want to look?”
Anna saw a photograph of the ship on the top page; she nearly shuddered with revulsion. “No, thank you,” she managed, glancing away.
“Ah well, here you are, safe and sound. What a blessing.”
“Josef knows about his brother, then?”
Mrs. Norling nodded. So Anna needn’t worry about telling him the news. The clicking of the Carpathia’s wireless—all those lists of lost and saved—had traveled all the way to a Minnesota farm.
“Josef came here, soon after he’d heard about the sinking,” Mrs. Norling continued. “His uncle’s wife, Agneta, is my niece—I’ve known Josef since he came from Sweden. Such a fine young man, as I’m sure you know yourself. They said there was a great loss of life, but we had no way of knowing who’d lived and who’d died. It was awful to see Josef so worried, pacing back and forth, but all we could do was wait. Finally—a few days later—the newspaper printed an official list of survivors. He read it right here. He found your name, but not the others.”
&
nbsp; Oh, Josef. He must have gone over that list again and again, hoping there’d been a mistake. He would have been brave, Anna knew. He wouldn’t have cried.
“He’d been so happy, when he made the arrangements for you to stay,” Mrs. Norling said. “It breaks my heart to think of it. He was eager to see the young lady he was going to marry, of course, but he told me all about you, too. Said you’d grown up together, like a sister and brother. I said the girls can stay as long as they need while the wedding plans are made, and he told me he hoped it wouldn’t be long. You could see he was nervous—as most men are, beforehand—but I knew he’d make a good husband. He’d started building his own house, you know. Couldn’t wait to show it off to his new bride . . .”
It hurt, more than it should have, to hear how anxious Josef had been for Sonja to arrive. How much he had been looking forward to their shared future.
Mrs. Norling’s voice trailed off, and she looked down at her hands, which finally lay at rest in her lap. The silence lingered in recognition of Josef’s grief. Finally, Anna had to ask the question that had been in her mind since she walked in the door.
“Is Josef still here?”
“No, he went home a few days ago. I don’t think he expected you to come all this way—we both thought you’d go back to your parents in Sweden. He’ll be so pleased to see you. Shall I telephone him?”
Anna had traveled more than a thousand miles to see Josef. But now that the reunion was imminent, she felt more nervous than ever. She didn’t want their first contact to be over the phone, exchanging sympathy in stilted voices. She didn’t even know if she’d be able to speak.
Anna was shaking her head, trying to think how she’d explain, but Mrs. Norling was already standing. “He doesn’t have a telephone at his new house, of course, but I’ll talk to Agneta. She’ll know where to find him.”
Anna waited in the parlor while Mrs. Norling made her call in the front hall. All Anna could hear were occasional murmured phrases: Can you believe it? and Poor dear. Anna tried to distract herself by looking at the framed embroidery scenes on the wall, but they kept reminding her of Sonja’s trousseau. All those beautifully sewn linens, lying at the bottom of the ocean.
Mrs. Norling marched back in, looking pleased. She launched into a complicated story about car trouble and train schedules, almost none of which Anna paid attention to, because all she wanted to know was the story’s resolution: when she would see Josef.
Not for some time, apparently, because he couldn’t get to town until later that evening.
“However, if you’re willing,” Mrs. Norling offered, “Agneta says the milk truck from Gollman’s Dairy comes by every day at five o’clock. It’s not far from here—I’m sure they’d give you a ride, and Agneta would be happy to have you stay the night.”
Reuniting with Josef in the country—his natural element—seemed more fitting than inside Mrs. Norling’s formal parlor. So Anna made the hour-long drive in a milk truck, and she would always associate her first sight of her new home with the clanking of metal jugs and the driver’s cheerful whistles. Sounds that testified to the resilience of daily routines.
The dairyman left Anna at the end of a rutted dirt drive, which led to a modest barn. A plow and cart, unhitched from the horses that brought them to life, lay forlornly in the distance. To her left, marked by a narrow gravel path, was a small house, perched on the top of a rise not quite high enough to be a hill. It was simple and neat, like a Swedish country cottage, and Anna could already picture the inside: a cupboard bed and a ceramic-tiled stove—all the furnishings that would remind her of home. Not allowing herself the indulgence of hesitation, Anna walked to the front door and knocked.
There was no answer.
Of course not, Anna chided herself. Josef would be outside, working. Farmers didn’t have time to sit and mope, and from what Anna remembered of Josef, a death in the family was no excuse. He would scrub down stalls and move bales of hay until his muscles screamed for relief, for Josef never allowed himself rest until a job was done.
Anna turned to the barn. She could hear horses stamping and whinnying inside, and when she grew closer, she could also hear a man’s voice, talking in a low, soothing tone. The barn doors were open, and Anna saw Josef inside, rubbing down a horse with a brush. She allowed herself the pleasure of watching him before he knew she was there.
“Good girl,” he was saying. “There you go, my lovely. Good girl.” Words whose meaning didn’t matter as much as their sound.
After years of recalling Josef’s image, Anna couldn’t help but notice the details that jarred with her memories. His hair was darker, for one, and cut shorter; his chin and jaw had hardened, losing any trace of boyish roundness. But his movements were startlingly familiar: the way his arm reached wide with each stroke, the way he carried his weight on one leg so the opposite foot could tap against the floor. She would have known it was Josef even if she hadn’t seen his face.
Anna could have stood there, watching him, forever. But the only thing worse than breaking the spell of this moment would be if he turned around and saw her gawking.
“Josef.”
She said his name forcefully, with a confidence she did not feel. Josef jerked around and dropped the brush, leaving it to clatter against the floorboards. He rushed toward Anna, and she saw he was smiling, a smile that encompassed both joy and relief. And Josef, who had only held Anna once—a brief hug at the train station when he left for America—was wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her against him, into him, as if her body could meld into his and in doing so, heal him.
In that moment, Anna realized she hadn’t left home. She had found it.
Anna wanted to stay, but her future beyond the next few days wasn’t up to her. She would do whatever Josef wanted. They spent that first evening at Tomas and Agneta’s house, silently agreeing that this supper would be treated as a social visit, unmarred by tragedy. Josef’s three school-age cousins were well mannered enough not to ask questions—though they snuck curious glances at Anna—and Tomas asked after old acquaintances back home. Small-town gossip, no matter how mundane, can always be stretched to create a meal’s worth of conversation.
After dinner, Agneta and her daughter cleared the table, and Agneta shooed Anna away from the kitchen. No need to help, she said, and why didn’t she join Josef in the sitting room? Tomas had already excused himself, saying he’d read upstairs after he got the boys to bed. Clearly, there was a family conspiracy to give Anna and Josef some time alone.
That night, Anna told Josef what had happened on the ship—as much as she felt able. She tried to make it sound as if Emil and Sonja had died painlessly, and if her evasions covered up her own guilt, that wasn’t her primary purpose. They were hit by pieces of the ship, Anna told him. It was quick; they didn’t suffer. Once the first lie was uttered, it was easier to tell the others that grew from it.
Anna didn’t say anything about the man she’d seen from the lifeboat.
She knew words were inadequate next to the depth of her remorse, but she tried. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save them.”
Josef, his elbows on his knees, brought his face closer to Anna’s. “You saved yourself, and I thank God for that.”
It was enthralling, to be the focus of Josef’s attention.
“About Sonja,” Josef began, and Anna braced herself. Jealousy was a sin, and she must act like the sister Josef thought her to be. “I know she was your friend,” Josef said. “It’s terrible that she died. But I haven’t been able to mourn her. I feel sad, of course, when I think of her, but we hardly knew each other.” Josef gave Anna an embarrassed half smile. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this—it sounds so cruel.”
He trusts me, Anna thought with a faint but passionate hope. I must prove myself worthy.
“I understand,” Anna said. “There’s no fault in speaking honestly.”
“Emil, though . . .” Josef let the name linger, a specter in the dar
kened room. “Ever since I came to America, I’d been planning to bring him over. As I was plowing the fields or building the house, I thought of how he’d be here, one day, working alongside me. Perhaps we’d go into business together, make something of ourselves. What will I do without him? I still can’t believe he’s really gone.”
“I know,” Anna said faintly. All she could think of was Emil’s face, rigid with cold. Or was it horror? That face would follow her for the rest of her life.
“I don’t envy your suffering,” Josef said. “But you were there when it happened. It’s real, for you, in a way it isn’t for me. I keep thinking Emil and Sonja are back in Sweden, and your papa will share news of them in his next letter. In my mind, they’re still alive.”
Anna never would have expected Josef to harbor such wistful fantasies. He had always been so practical, accepting his life as it was rather than mooning over how it could be different. Then she remembered the way he used to look at her when she examined a cobweb’s intricate patterns. He’d never made fun of her or chided her for daydreaming. Perhaps Josef had a richer imagination than she’d supposed, for he was one of the few people who didn’t consider her thoughtfulness a flaw.
“I’m grateful you came,” Josef said. “It helps to know what happened.”
And now her duty was done. What next? Anna’s apprehension must have shown despite her purposefully blank expression, because Josef smiled at her.
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