Swede Hollow

by Ola Larsmo

  Gustaf fell silent. David had still not spoken. Gustaf could feel that the man’s brown eyes were fixed on his face, but he didn’t look up as he went on.

  “One day Jerk came over to my workbench when I was almost done with the upper leather of a shoe and said, ‘Give me that.’ I wanted to finish the work first, because I didn’t want to give him a chance to complain, so I kept on sewing. He stayed where he was and raised his voice until he was practically shouting, ‘Give me that!’ I picked up a knife to cut off a piece of leather that was sticking out before giving him the shoe. But he leaned down and grabbed the shoe. I refused to let go, so we ended up standing there, tugging in opposite directions. It probably looked quite comical. Then I raised my hand holding the knife, and without thinking, I stabbed him in the neck. I wasn’t even especially mad. I just aimed for his neck because it was the softest spot. I still don’t know why I did it, except that I wanted to shut him up. It’s like what a lot of people say when they’ve done something awful—I’ve heard it so many times, and it sounds like they’re trying to think up an excuse, but it’s probably true. It was as if for a moment I was not myself; I was somebody else. All I remember is that I felt very calm. The foreman fell to the floor without a word and began kicking his legs. That’s when I got scared and tossed the knife aside. I tried to stanch the bleeding by pressing on his neck. Some of the other men came over and pulled me away because they thought I wanted to strangle him, on top of stabbing him.”

  Gustaf paused for a moment.

  “But when they pulled me away, the blood started pouring out again. I can still picture the scene if I close my eyes.”

  “What happened then?” asked David, his voice oddly calm.

  “That’s the strange part. I don’t really know. Jerk Ersa ended up in the hospital in Örebro. He wasn’t able to speak as they drove him over there. My brother had witnessed the whole incident, so he tried to explain that it wasn’t my fault, that Jerk had provoked me. And that I was already holding the knife in my hand. I just sat there. I’d wiped off the knife and put it back in its place on the cutting bench. But the floor was still stained with blood. I sat at my place and didn’t know what to do. They told me to go home. They didn’t want me there. When I looked up, I realized they were afraid of me now, and nobody dared look me in the eye. That night I went over to my brother’s house and slept up in the attic. When I got home, Anna said the police had come by, asking for me. So we left Sweden as soon as we could. We’d already talked about leaving, and we had all the necessary papers, but we’d been putting it off because we weren’t sure about emigrating. Until that evening, that is.”

  The two men sat in silence across from each other. Gustaf realized visiting hours must be over soon. Outside the narrow windows up near the ceiling, the light had already turned gray, and he could hardly make out David’s face. His mane of hair was silhouetted against the dirty yellow wall. David sat very still. Then he said, “So how did it go? For that man, Jerk Ersa?”

  Gustaf hesitated before replying.

  “I’ve wondered about that so many times. I don’t know. He was alive when we left, but he was in bad shape. He couldn’t talk anymore, only make hissing sounds. Somebody said that he didn’t have long to live. That’s what the police told my brother.”

  “So you don’t know?” said David. “Whether he died or not, I mean.”

  Gustaf shook his head.

  David paused before saying, “If only you knew the stories that I’ve heard in here. But I believe you. What you’ve told me sounds like the truth.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” said Gustaf, “but it struck me that things are not the way they should be.”

  And now he fixed his eyes on David, peering at him in the dim light. “Here you sit in prison for a murder you didn’t commit, while I’m a free man, even though I might have killed someone. It seems completely backward.”

  “So,” said David, still as calm as ever, “do you wish things were different in any way?”

  Now Gustaf didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  Then the guard opened the door behind him. He saw a strip of yellow electric light slide up the wall. The two men stood up.

  “If that’s how it is,” said David quietly as they leaned toward each other, “and if that’s what’s bothering you, then you should know that I, for one, forgive you—in the absence of anyone else who could do that.”

  The words came out of nowhere and struck Gustaf with great force. He merely nodded mutely to David, who stood there with his face again in shadow. Then he followed the guard out. That was all.

  When the gate closed behind Gustaf, he stood there motionless for a long moment, reorienting himself to the outside world. Then he looked for the nearest streetlamp and began walking back toward the streetcar turnaround spot. A few snowflakes drifted slantwise through the air. He was breathing hard, each breath like a stab of iron in his chest. It was as if something had been living inside him for far too long, and finally he had pulled his ribs apart and yanked it out, leaving behind an emptiness that was now slowly filling with all the sorrow he’d managed to hide from himself for so many years.

  :: :: ::

  Liz had another job that she did after the workday was over at the Klinkenfuer factory. Mangini clearly knew about this, but he was willing to overlook it, as long as it didn’t affect the speed of her work. Liz had worked at the factory longer than anyone else, and few seamstresses could keep up with her, so she was allowed certain liberties.

  Ellen didn’t know about this until she took on some extra tasks that paid her fifty cents more per week. She would stay behind to sweep up the fabric scraps, trash, and dust, sorting out the bigger fabric pieces and putting them in a box so they could be used sometime in the future. It took her an hour after the normal workday, and sometimes she was so tired that her eyes stung and she had a hard time raising her arms above shoulder height when she put on her coat. But she liked the feeling of being the last one there on certain evenings. She also had to lock up and then drop the key in the mail slot on her way out.

  On some evenings Liz would also stay behind. She withdrew to her own corner and sat there sewing on something, mostly by hand. She used the sewing machine only on a few occasions, when Ellen would hear a sudden clatter behind her back as she swept the room. Liz never said much, just gave a nod in her direction. On those evenings when they were both there, she and Liz would leave together and part outside the wagon entrance after saying good night. On other evenings Liz would leave with the other women, and Ellen was left on her own. And that was actually what she preferred.

  After a week when Liz had stayed late on several days, Ellen couldn’t resist asking the other woman what she was working on. At first Liz offered only an annoyed look in reply. Then her expression seemed to soften, and she pulled out a cardboard box from under the worktable where she sat.

  “I’ve kept careful accounts the whole time,” she said. “I pay for every single piece of fabric. Mangini knows all about it, but the other girls might get jealous. And I’m not sure that old Mr. Klinkenfuer would be too pleased. So I hope you won’t say anything, Ellen. All right?”

  Ellen nodded.

  In the box, folded as neatly as on the shelves in a shop, were a skirt, a blouse, and what looked like a woman’s small jacket. The blouse was made of plain cotton, like the shirts Ellen sewed every day. But the skirt and jacket were made of heavier, dark material. She couldn’t help reaching out her hand to run her fingers over the fabric. Liz gave her a warning look, though she knew that cleanliness was important to Ellen. It was one of the things they had in common, in spite of their age difference. Downstairs in the building was a sink and faucet, and the two of them went there often to rinse the chaff and sweat from their eyes and face. This took them away from their work for a short time, but otherwise, by the afternoon, it got hard for them to see what they were doing, and that’s when most of the accidents occurred.

  “I’m not sewin
g these things for myself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Liz. “I’ve taken on some work on the side, sewing and altering clothes for some of the office ladies who live in the neighborhood but work downtown. I do a lot of the sewing at home. But one day I gathered my courage to ask Mangini if I could stitch some of the seams on the machine here, so the clothing would look like it was factory made. Only after work hours, of course. And he has always had a soft spot for me, so he gave me permission. I pay him a little money for the material I use. But I buy most of the fabric myself, because it has to be of a finer quality. I think the small payments I give him probably end up in his own pocket.”

  Liz smiled. Ellen wondered what she meant when she said that Mangini had a “soft spot” for her. As far as she knew, Mangini was married and had two children, while Liz was a spinster and lived by herself in a rented room in the area beyond Maria Avenue. But she didn’t really want to know anything more.

  Ellen could hardly take her eyes off the garments in the cardboard box. The seams were so even that it was impossible to see where Liz had used the sewing machine. And the black fabric draped in soft folds that were barely visible. That sort of clothing would keep you warm even during the coldest winter months in Minnesota, yet wouldn’t make you sweat at work—though she wasn’t sure how much a typist or secretary would sweat. She wondered how much Liz earned from this extra work, but she didn’t ask. Liz, for her part, could see how impressed Ellen was, and she smiled with satisfaction. Then she placed tissue paper over the garments and pushed the box back under the table, out of sight.

  On their way out to the street, Ellen couldn’t help asking, “But shouldn’t you really have your own seamstress shop? Since you’re so talented?”

  At first Liz didn’t reply as she walked along with her head bowed.

  “I did have my own shop once,” she said at last. “But you’re young. You don’t realize how easy it is for a seamstress to acquire a bad reputation, especially a woman who isn’t married. As soon as you sew even one garment for a man, the gossip starts to fly.”

  Then she shook her head and withdrew into herself again, saying only a brief good night before she turned away and disappeared up Margaret Street.

  On other evenings Ellen would be all alone, and so tired that she could hardly see the trash in the corners, especially on the lower floor where most of the windows faced the courtyard. Mangini thought it was best if she didn’t switch on the electric light in the ceiling because it could be seen from outside and might attract what he called the “wrong sort of people.” But he also said, “I trust you, Ellen, so I’m going to lend you something.” He went over to the small glassed-in office in the far corner. He unlocked the door and let her peek inside. She saw a desk, a locked roll-front cabinet, and several boxes of papers. This was where the cashier sat a couple of days a week. What Mangini wanted to show her was on top of the cabinet: a simple lantern with a candle inside and a lens that attracted the light so it became focused in a small cone.

  “You can use this in the winter when it’s dark,” he said to Ellen. “The key to the office is hanging on a peg above my desk over in the corner. Just make sure nothing catches fire, and put the key back in the morning. All right?” He looked at her in a way that made her feel he was taking her measure; it was the same way she’d felt on that very first day when she came to ask for work. But mostly she thought about what she’d seen sitting on the desk: a typewriter under its cover with the letters UNDERWOOD in gold script. She’d never seen an actual typewriter before.

  A few evenings passed before she dared take a closer look at the typewriter. She would sweep up as best she could in the existing light and then go to get the lantern. The first few times she merely walked past the typewriter. Then one evening she cautiously lifted off the cover, after running her fingers over it to make sure there was nothing that might indicate it had been removed. But she found no latches or hooks. With the cover gone, she let her fingertips glide over the shiny, round keys, which gleamed in the light from the lantern. They made her think of the buttons on a policeman’s uniform. That was all she did before setting the cover back in place and putting out the lantern.

  The next day Liz was there, sewing for as long as she could see what she was doing. But the following evening Ellen was once again alone, sweeping the floor and sorting remnants. Then she went inside the office. She took off the typewriter cover and set the lantern next to it on the desk. She took a crumpled piece of paper from the wastebasket and smoothed it out. It took a few tries before she figured out how to insert the paper in the roller. Her fingers grew sweaty at the thought she might break something in the typewriter, which seemed as fragile as an insect.

  When the paper was in place, she pressed on the keys, one by one. At first, when the type bars struck the paper, the sound made her jump. But she kept on going. The first thing she typed was her name.

  :: :: ::

  Unlike Gustaf and the girls, who continually sought to widen the circles in which they moved, Anna found it harder to leave the Hollow as time passed. This change in perspective came over her gradually. When the family first settled in, she still took an interest in looking around. But after a while she began to feel as if there were no longer any doors open to other places beyond where they lived. For a time she thought it might be pleasant to accompany Inga up to the Swedish shops on Payne Avenue when they had a little extra money. There was bound to be so much to see in the shop windows and vendors’ stalls—maybe nothing that she could afford to buy, but she thought it would be amusing to daydream about all the things she’d see.

  Yet she slowly began to realize that her world was below the street level, down in the Hollow. She couldn’t say exactly when this happened, yet it didn’t bother her, although she could see Gustaf and the girls were worried. It had something to do with Carl. When he died, the rest of the world seemed more and more colorless and washed out. Anna stayed where things were familiar, and she did the same things she’d always done after they’d arrived here. Nothing else seemed important anymore.

  She would still go up to the street to shop for groceries, and she no longer took detours so she wouldn’t have to walk through the Drewry Tunnel. It didn’t frighten her anymore. But if possible, she avoided shopping at Larson’s, though it was closest. The family was doing slightly better now that Ellen had found a job, and soon Elisabet would undoubtedly find work as well, maybe joining her sister at the Klinkenfuer factory if that could be arranged. Ellen had promised to keep her eyes open, and girls who worked there often left for other jobs. Lately Anna had been able to pay the family’s grocery bills at the end of each month, but she didn’t care for the way old man Larson would peer at her from behind his spectacles and under those bushy brows of his. He always gave her a look that seemed to be measuring and weighing her, just like the scales hanging above the counter. Anna preferred instead to go farther up the street. But after a while she stopped doing even that. She no longer went farther than Minnehaha Street. Beyond that neighborhood, there were too many people who spoke languages other than Swedish, which made her uneasy. Her circle got smaller and smaller, but she wasn’t concerned. She had her own world. Yet she realized after a while that others saw this as a problem. Including Inga.

  Anna didn’t know whether the idea originated with Gustaf or Inga, but he was the one who suggested that on Sunday they should go on a little outing to Elliot Park in Minneapolis. It was the end of April and the weather was getting warmer. They would take the streetcar from Seventh Street and transfer downtown to the streetcar line that went all the way out to the park. Inga and the girls would come too. Elisabet had asked whether Leonard could come with them, but Gustaf said no, and she hadn’t insisted. Anna offered no objections to the plan, but the closer it got to Sunday, the greater her apprehension, until she almost felt as if she were suffocating.

  Elisabet was brimming with anticipation even though she wasn’t allowed to bring Leonard along. Ellen said nothing, lost i
n her own thoughts, as always. Inga seemed to be looking forward to the day. “It’ll be nice to see something different,” she said, “and to meet some folks besides the same people sitting around here in the Hollow with us.” Inga’s good humor helped to ease Anna’s fear somewhat, but her sense of dread returned during the long hours of Sunday morning.

  In honor of the day, Gustaf had bought himself a paper collar, which he fastened to his whitest shirt. Anna wore her dark dress and wrapped the shawl with the tiny flowers around her shoulders. “Shall we go?” she said.

  Gustaf had bought streetcar tokens, which he handed out with a solemn air, as if his daughters were still little girls. On the slope up to Dayton’s Bluff, some of the shrubbery had already sprouted buds, which obscured the view of the Hamm mansion. They said very little to each other as they headed for the streetcar stop, but the girls ran on ahead and then waited for the others on the bridge. Inga came last, breathing heavily.

  There was a hint of warmer weather in the air and scents of spring, with sun-warmed gravel and a misty gust from the river that lifted rubbish from the gutters and whirled it across the cobblestones, only to vanish as suddenly as it had come. Soon the yellow streetcar appeared over the hill and came to a halt with the ring of its bell. This was the first time Anna would take a streetcar. She sat down on the worn wooden bench and looked out the window. The city glided past with low, dark buildings and shops that were closed because it was Sunday. Along the river she saw trees, their branches still leafless, and telephone wires that undulated up and down. She dozed off.