Swede Hollow

by Ola Larsmo

  Agnes Karin was a short, thin woman. She didn’t look like someone who was thirty, nor like someone who’d had two children. She was a couple of years older than David, and a good twenty years younger than Horrible Hans. She had fine, light brown hair and a wide mouth. But her smile was lovely, and she had all her teeth. Everyone who knew her wished her well, even though no one ever felt particularly close to her. They blamed that mostly on her husband and his dreadful temper.

  Horrible Hans had no friends, nor did he want any, as evidenced by his surly manner. For that reason no one really knew how he made a living to support himself and his family. All anyone knew was that when the family first arrived in the Hollow, he’d actually had a good job as some sort of clerk at Hackett’s hardware store—a job that partially involved dealing with the accounts of the Swedish customers. But people said he’d lost the job because of his foul disposition. Everybody also knew that he periodically beat his wife and children, sometimes quite badly, although Agnes Karin never complained. But he didn’t drink. After being fired from his office job, he’d go into town on certain days and come back late at night, leaving Agnes Karin and the children in peace for a while. Some people said that he went around to the Swedish bars and begged.

  Things were bound to go badly, starting in the Hollow. Horrible Hans was a small man but hot tempered and violent. One morning when David Lundgren again walked past their house, Horrible Hans came rushing out in his shirtsleeves, clutching a hammer in one hand. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if seeing Lundgren eye to eye made him realize how much taller the man was. The next instant he threw the hammer right at Lundgren’s head, just barely missing his mark.

  David Lundgren said nothing. He leaned down, pulled the hammer out of the snow, and brushed it off. Then he slowly walked over to the fence. Horrible Hans may have taken a step back, but he kept his eyes fixed on Lundgren as he stood there with his suspenders hanging and one hand holding up the waistband of his pants. Lundgren raised the hammer and then flung it down with all his might at the gatepost. The hammer plowed into the rotting wood until only the shaft remained visible. Then he turned around and left.

  One day Horrible Hans and his family were gone. The Klar girls heard about it from their classmates. Agnes Karin’s daughters did not go to school, but Elisabet came home and said that their house, at the very bottom of the Hollow, stood empty, and maybe this time some Italians would move in. When Anna told Inga about this, she went over to have a look. She came walking back up the hill with the hem of her skirt muddied and told them it was true. Horrible Hans’s house was empty. She’d even gone inside to see if there might be a letter or a note that would say where they’d gone, but she’d found nothing like that. The family had left behind the furniture, though it was of little value. But all the household items, bed linens, and curtains were gone.

  David Lundgren was beside himself. The move had taken place while he was at work, and when he heard about it he reacted the way he usually did whenever he was upset: he fell silent. He didn’t talk to anyone about the matter. Not even his brother. He was even quieter than before, with a stony expression on his face, but he was extremely restless. Several times a night he would go over to see if the house was truly empty. It remained that way until a man by the name of Pascella, whose older brother already lived in the Hollow, moved in with his young wife. The elder Pascella came in person to tell Jonathan Lundgren, asking that he speak to the other Swedes so that no one would take offense.

  Several weeks passed before anyone heard anything more about the matter. Then rumors began to fly. Someone had seen Horrible Hans from the train. This report did not come from any of David Lundgren’s workmates on the Great Northern. Instead it originated with a day laborer who knew Jonathan and who sometimes stopped by the Hollow to visit Lame Lotta’s saloon farther down the slope. The man had been working as a brakeman on a Northwestern freight train that traveled between Mankato and Le Sueur. When the train slowed down around a curve, he’d been in his place up on the roof of the train car, and from there he’d caught sight of a solitary man plodding along the road, leaning into the wind. He was carrying a bundle, moving unsteadily, and looking generally miserable. The tracks followed the road for a short distance so the brakeman had time to study the man, and he saw his face when he raised his head to look at the train. That was when he recognized the man, although it took a few minutes for him to recall where he’d seen him. Several more weeks went by before the brakeman again ran into the elder Lundgren brother. More or less in passing he happened to mention the strange-looking man he’d seen struggling against the snow and wind out on the prairie. He said he was fairly certain it was that Horrible Hans character who was always at loggerheads with Jonathan’s younger brother. But what was he doing in the middle of nowhere? It had been such a strange sight: a short, gaunt man dressed all in black, hunched forward and all alone in the wind blowing across the snow-covered prairie, where everything was white and even the crows didn’t venture out.

  When the rumor reached David Lundgren, it had an odd effect on him. He became utterly calm. For weeks he’d been walking around in dogged silence, but now this intense detachment eased and he became more like himself, although that didn’t make him any more communicative. But he worked hard all spring. He took any job he could get, coming home only to sleep, unless he overnighted in a freight car up at the switch yard. It was only after he disappeared that people realized why he’d been working so hard. He needed to save up enough money to leave. One day he too was gone. It took close to a year before it was possible to piece together the whole story of what had happened, and by then it was all over.

  On a rainy day in April, the widow Lundgren came over to the Klars’ house and sat down at the kitchen table. Inga was already there. At that point no one had heard from David for several weeks.

  “No, I have no idea where he is,” said Mrs. Lundgren, smiling. She always sucked in her lips to hide the fact that she was missing a few lower teeth, but she looked calm and cheerful even though her words sounded sad. “I think he’s out there on the prairie somewhere, and I know what he’s after.”

  And she said further, “Back home in Sweden he was silent and withdrawn all the time. When we came here, it was if he’d suddenly woken up. But when Agnes and her husband and children disappeared, it was as if he withdrew again even though he was still here. Of course I knew why he wanted to come to the Hollow. I knew from the very beginning. But why should we have stayed in Sweden? There was nothing left for him or for me. Now we’re here, and I have Jonathan back. David is out there somewhere, in some place he has always wanted to go. But Jonathan will stay here with me.”

  And when the old woman again sucked in her lips to smile, Anna pictured the older brother, Jonathan—big and tall with strong shoulders, his hands hanging at his sides, always ready to help out. And she thought Mrs. Lundgren was right. Jonathan would no longer be the one who set off impulsively into the world, in search of what he so earnestly wanted. And for the first time she found Mrs. Lundgren slightly frightening as the big and stout woman sat there at her own kitchen table.

  Swede Hollow

  March 1898

  THE MORNINGS HERE were different from how they were in New York. In some ways they reminded Gustaf of back home. He would eat his corn mush, which was certainly a bit sweeter, drink his coffee if there was any, and then put on his jacket and a dark yellow scarf, winding it around his neck and ears, since he had no cap. Then he went out the door, usually while everyone else was still asleep. It was pitch-dark. There were no street lights in the Hollow, but in some of the houses farther down the slope lights shone from the loft windows. And above the viaduct, to the south toward Seventh Street, he could see the lights of the city, faint but clear. But down here everything was quiet. Before he climbed the stairs, it was like being out in the country.

  Yet one thing here was the same as back in Sweden and in New York, during those months they’d lived there: more and more men j
oined him as he walked along the path toward the stairs, until he was just one of many barely visible gray figures in the dark. They greeted each other briefly as they exhaled, trying to save their breath and moving cautiously so as to hold on to the warmth from their beds, which still clung to their skin under their shirts. The snow creaked beneath their wooden soles. Some had been able to afford real boots with steel-tipped toes, but only those who’d already managed to find steady work. If Gustaf could get hold of the right type of leather and glue, he’d be able to make himself a pair of boots. He thought about that a lot, but it cost more money than he could spare.

  Some of the men who had found permanent jobs might soon move away. Then they’d start off on their morning route somewhere else in the city, way up there on Railroad Island or even farther away. Occasionally there was a line at the bottom of the stairs; then the others had to stop and wait as the cold set in and annoyance took the form of a cloud hovering above their heads. When Gustaf reached Seventh Street he would merely follow along with everyone else heading to a spot where work might be found. Usually this meant the railway repair shops and freight depots. He followed the other men across the viaduct, sometimes passing right through the billowing smoke from the locomotive that now and then passed below them. Then they proceeded down to Fourth Street where the long brick buildings of the railroad companies began. From that direction the railroad depot itself looked almost like a church, with tall, arched windows designed to let in as much light as possible. Only those men who already had permanent positions headed over there. Gustaf joined the others, which meant most of the men, as they walked toward the long and narrow barracks, also built of soot-covered brick. If he was in luck, he’d get hired as a freight loader and could spend parts of the day indoors. It varied from day to day how many men were needed. Even if the man wearing a waistcoat on the loading dock didn’t choose Gustaf, it was still worth waiting for a bit, since workers were needed to clear the tracks of snow or knock ice off the switches. Like everyone else, he had slipped the Irish foreman a bigger bribe than he could really afford—a dollar a month—but the man didn’t always seem to remember that fact.

  If it turned out that all the shovels and pickaxes were taken on any specific day, he could always head across the switchyard’s tangle of tracks to the warehouse belonging to the Great Northern on the other side. Maybe more workers were needed over there, although the Northern Pacific paid a little better.

  Today Gustaf and Jonathan Lundgren were the only ones left from the Hollow. They were standing with some other men who also hadn’t been chosen when the doors to the warehouse were closed. Without a word Lundgren began walking toward the tracks, and Gustaf followed. For a while Lundgren had had a permanent job with the Northern Pacific, but he’d been let go a few years back and then worked in the forests. Now he was here again, doing various odd jobs. But he knew how everything functioned, so Gustaf thought it was wise to stick close.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and paid careful attention to where he set his feet, stepping over the ties and rails, now and then raising his head to see if any train might be on its way into the track area. Slowly the sky turned gray in the east. There was no wind. In the middle of the tracks, Lundgren suddenly stopped. At first Gustaf thought he was thinking of taking a pinch of snuff, but he merely stood there in silence, without sticking his hand in his pocket. Gustaf got restless, wanting to move on to see if there might be any odd jobs left for them. The other man glanced over his shoulder and said something. Gustaf had to lean forward to catch what he was saying. At first he thought he’d misheard. Here they stood in the middle of all the tracks, beneath a leaden gray sky, and they would have to hurry if they hoped to find work. Yet the big man had said quite simply, “It’s a long way home.” For a brief, heartbreaking moment Gustaf thought Lundgren was about to start crying. Then they both began walking toward the low warehouse buildings on the other side.

  He hadn’t been over to the Great Northern very often. Today it was just the two of them and some Irishmen who huddled together a short distance away from the loading dock. The door to the warehouse stood open a few feet or so. A man wearing a long military coat and boots stood with his back turned, talking angrily to someone inside. Then he turned around, came out onto the ramp, and looked down at them. The Irishmen stepped forward but still kept their distance by several yards. The man in the coat turned first to the two Swedes. “Swedes?” he asked. “Any English?”

  They both nodded. Jonathan Lundgren, who had been here the longest, could understand quite a lot.

  “You two,” said the man, pointing at them. Then he fired off a long stream of words that Gustaf couldn’t follow. Lundgren listened intently, nodded, and then turned to go. The Irishmen stayed where they were, still waiting.

  “What did he say?” asked Gustaf as they went around the side of the warehouse. “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Here’s what he said: ‘I know you’re good workers as long as you understand what we say to you.’ That was mostly a test to see if we understood what he said. When I told him we did, he said we should walk along the tracks toward town and de-ice the switches. Have you ever done that before?”

  Gustaf shook his head.

  “It’s not hard. First we need to get some tools from the foreman.”

  They reported to a little cubbyhole at the corner, where they were given ropes, a blowtorch, a snow shovel, a bucket of grease, and a hammer for each of them. In a ledger they had to both print and sign their names. Then the foreman rattled off a long series of words, and Lundgren nodded and said, “Okay,” several times. Gustaf stood there trying to look as if he understood every word. Then they went back out into the winter.

  They followed the tangle of tracks leading away from the train station and headed down toward the river. It was very quiet. The branches of slender deciduous trees, bowed beneath the weight of the snow, formed a vault over the embankment. Down at the river a couple of tugboats moved upstream toward the falls, and on the other side white smoke rose up from the huge steam mills. Gustaf hadn’t yet been over to the opposite shore. They walked in silence, their breath coming out in clouds. The day had begun. It had been given a direction, and suddenly it held a place for him.

  “You should wear gloves instead of mittens,” said Jonathan. That was one of the few things he said all morning. They chopped ice off the levers and pinions and then melted away whatever frost was left. Gustaf worked as hard as he could, thinking he was moving quite fast. But he had to keep taking breaks to warm up his hands by sticking them in his armpits, and that made him lose time. Then Lundgren had to wait, holding his hammer, until the feeling returned to Gustaf’s fingertips.

  “I’d still have to take them off so I can feel what I’m doing,” Gustaf said curtly as he raised the numb palms of his hands and with all his might brought the sledgehammer down on the jammed lever—which gave way and slammed into the exact spot where his left hand had been only moments ago. The bang was swallowed up by the sound of a switch engine approaching on the side track, but he felt the blood drain from his head, leaving him dizzy. If his hand had still been lying there, it would have been chopped off at the wrist.

  Lundgren looked at him.

  “You should wear gloves,” he said after a moment.

  “I can’t afford them,” replied Gustaf, looking down. “Real gloves made from soft leather cost money. But I suppose I could make some myself.” He knew the other man couldn’t hear him. The hissing from the pistons of the approaching locomotive was getting louder, and the smoke was already casting a shadow on the snow, still white. He looked up.

  The switch engine, bearing the colors of the Great Northern, was as shiny as a plaything. Clinging to the side was a man holding one arm out, as if performing some sort of odd circus trick. It was the boy named Hammerberg, who often prowled around their house in the evening. He was holding on tight with one hand as he stood on the bottom rung of the ladder and flailed his other hand in the a
ir, his fingers splayed as if to catch the wind. The boy caught sight of them and waved, his face lit up with an expression of delight. Then the locomotive drew even with them, a crashing wall of metal and smoke and a deafening hissing sound. Leonard Hammerberg slid past above them, like one of the Lord’s angels, and then disappeared into the coal smoke that settled behind the engine. They saw him again down at the bend, still hanging on with one hand and with the other stretched out as the locomotive went around the last curve before the bridge. Then he was gone. Only the smoke remained, hovering among the tree branches like an ever-diminishing spiderweb.

  “That one’s not right in the head,” said Lundgren, bending down again to inspect the switch to see if any part of the mechanism had broken when it was released. Gustaf looked down at his own hand, as if to make sure it was still there. He was hungry, and his sense of relief suddenly faded, giving way to an encroaching headache. As he watched Lundgren struggling with the jammed and frozen hinges, he thought that maybe the young boy they’d just seen was not the one who lacked all common sense.

  :: :: ::

  It was when they were setting the table for supper that the darkness took shape again. That was how Ellen always thought of it: the darkness, a shadow just at the edge of her vision, refusing to disappear, always there as a reminder of something awful to come. She could have also called it the bitterness, like a bad taste at the back of her mouth. It had been there for as long as she could remember. At times it would grow, at times it would shrink. Now it reappeared when her mother once again was cross with Elisabet, who had carelessly set the tin plates down on the kitchen table with a great clatter. They were the same plates they’d had onboard ship, but they were still usable. Elisabet never paid attention to what she was doing; she always made too much noise and flitted about no matter what she did. She hadn’t yet learned to restrain her movements, and she chattered to herself as she set the table. Ellen followed behind her little sister, correcting the placement of everything so the table would look nice. Their mother glanced at them over her shoulder from where she stood at the stove. Then she blurted out something so suddenly that at first Ellen couldn’t decide who she was talking to. She heard her mother ask, “What did you say?”